


my soul from out that shadow

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), but here we are, i know the world does absolutely not need another dh1 retelling fic, so enjoy!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-07 02:19:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12223737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead.An Empress dead and one duty failed, disgraced and falsely accused Lord Protector Corvo Attano has one purpose left to him: to find and save her daughter, and punish those who betrayed the throne. And this charge, he'll fulfill -- but the question is, what will he do to see it done?(Yet another retelling of the firstDishonoredgame.)





	1. prison

_It was a nice day; the wind from the sea was still cold, it always was in the Month of Earth, but it was refreshing, smelling of salt and fresh air instead of rotting garbage and the thick smoke of burning bodies that lingered over Dunwall these days. The sun was out, though the light was still winter-thin, and it was warm enough that the workers at the Tower’s water-lock were wearing their shirtsleeves without coats._

_It was a nice day, nice enough that Emily was in one of her spring outfits, he recognized it when she leaped into his arms to welcome him home and kiss his cheek. Nice enough that even Sokolov had ventured outside, his eyes squinted with the sensitivity of the hungover even as he painted with the same amount of skill he had stone cold sober._

_It was a nice day, made nicer by the small hand wrapped tightly in his, made nicer by Jessamine’s warm smile, as if his presence was a weight lifted off her shoulders (and Void, if he could lift all of those weights he would in a heartbeat). He was home now, and even if they had no one to help the city, they could at least face it all together._

_It was a nice day, until he saw shadows on the roof across the way, until the shadows seemed to come alive with men in oilskin coats and black masks, knives in their hands. Until their leader appeared, hard-faced and uncompromising, catching him up in some black magic he had no name for and leaving him helpless as he slid his knife between the Empress’s -- between his Jessamine’s -- ribs and letting her fall, helpless as one of his men grabbed Emily and disappeared with her even as she screamed his name._

_Until he fell to the ground, until he held his beloved as she breathed her last, until he realized what really had been done too late, until the Spymaster and High Overseer had him dragged away, their triumphant voices ringing in his ears long after his back hit the cold stone floor of Coldridge._

_It was a nice day, until suddenly it was the worst day of his life._

* * *

Corvo woke, as he had grown used to, quickly and completely. It was hard to retain any old sleeping habits in prison -- the guards could come at any time, the interrogator. Being asleep or half-asleep when they did was cause for a harsh lesson, one Corvo had no intention of learning. It was bad enough when he was awake.

It was still dark out -- there was no light coming through the thin slit that stood for a window; his cell faced the north, he had realized at some point, so neither the sunrise or sunset came through clearly. It was either dimly lit or black as the Void, and like so much else he was half sure it was on purpose -- the same way the view from the window, the view of the gallows, was on purpose.

Bare skin scraped against the ground as he stood from his bed (if a block of stone in the back of the cell counted as a bed) and he groaned as the act of straightening tugged at and tore the raw flesh of his back. He couldn’t see it, but he knew what it must look like: a map of red lines, some still weeping and some scabbed over, the pattern of whip-cracks eating up his bare flesh until there was no space left unmarked. The rest of his body was much the same, faded old scars from his Grand Guard days covered over by the interrogator’s ministrations.

A small part of him that still thought about these things wondered if he was an exception, or if all prisoners were treated like this. If it was the latter...nothing could be done now, though. Not with Jessamine gone. The thought stung worse than anything the madman in the interrogation room could ever do to him -- she was gone. She was gone, she was dead, and he had failed her when it counted most. Failed to protect her, failed as Protector, and now...and now he’d die for it. Blamed for it all. The irony was staggering.

He couldn’t decide yet whether he was resigned to his fate or not -- part of him was, part of him doubted he could find a way out: the gallows loomed over his cell window like a promise, and it was only a matter of time before his head joined so many others in the mud below. But he still forced himself up every morning, forced himself to stretch like it was any other day and he was waking up in his rooms at the Tower. Made himself eat, though never much -- the rats that scurried in and out of his cell were certainly well-fed. They didn’t scare him, the rats. Wouldn’t it be funny if one bit him? Wouldn’t it be funny if he caught the plague on top of everything else? It would be his luck.

Sometimes he wondered why he bothered to care, still. His execution fast approached as the days blurred into one another, and it grew harder to keep any sort of optimism. But there was one thing that he thought of, one thing that kept him from the abyss of despair and resignation: _Emily_. He didn’t know if she was alive, but she had to be alive. She had to be. They would have killed her there with her mother if they wanted her dead, so she yet lived. She yet lived, and she needed him. He couldn’t let her down, even if he was sure he would -- what else could he do trapped here?

What else could he do besides let the guards haul him through the prison halls -- to the chorus of jeers from the other prisoners -- to the interrogation room, let the madman that ruled it have his way? He was a murderer to them, a treasonous foreigner who’d committed regicide. Even if it was all lies, the public was always easy to convince.

It was the same again today, though Campbell and Burrows made one of their rare appearances. To taunt him, of course. To lord what they’d done over him -- they knew he knew and relished it. No one would believe him, and he’d take their crime to his grave. They would try to get him to ‘confess’ sometimes, like today, and he’d just spit blood in their faces. They wanted him to lie, to pretend he’d done something he’d die before doing? Never. If he would die, he’d go to the Void with the knowledge that at least he would die an innocent man, not someone who sold out to make things a little easier.

He wasn’t, though, was he? Innocent. He’d failed Jessamine, and he’d fail Emily too.

But he was innocent of the one thing they wanted him to be guilty of, and that was what held his sanity together through the torture and the gloating -- he hadn’t done it. He hadn’t done it and they hadn’t hurt Emily, twin thoughts that were all that kept him together.

But in the end, the execution was tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do about that.

Back in his cell, he tried to sleep -- it didn’t come, as usual, but he hoped that he’d at least pass out long enough to forget the pain. Maybe the interrogator knew he’d be losing his favorite toy tomorrow and decided to make the last round special, but it hurt like a bitch. Nothing he couldn’t power through, but anything to keep him from thinking.

The clatter of a tray on the floor startled him into sitting up on the stone ‘bed’, blinking. Was it feeding time already? Strange, it didn’t feel that late…and it wasn’t one of the normal guards, either. He didn’t recognize this one, and the look in his eyes was softer. “You should eat, Corvo,” the guard said, and there was something of that softness in his voice, too. “This meal comes from a friend.”

He was gone before Corvo could reply, but that was enough to get him up, hobbling the short distance to the tray and kneeling. It was the usual sort of prison meal, just a hunk of stale bread and an overripe apple, but there had to be _something_...oh. A note under the bread (which he took and tore up for the rats, tossing it at the few skittering aimlessly around his cell). He picked it up, feeling something long and solid folded in it, and quickly retreated back to the corner to investigate.

A key -- that was the first thing he noticed. A key, and he knew exactly what it would unlock without reading the note. That note, though, that was...interesting. He’d hoped that there would be people that didn’t believe Burrows’ lies, but to _know_ it, and to know they were helping him escape...to know that there was a chance yet, some kind of chance, _any_ chance…

He hefted the key in his hand, straightening and crumpling the note up to tuck it in the waistband of the dirty prison trousers they’d put him in -- he’d rather keep it with him than have some enterprising guard find it and have a place to start looking. Silently he moved to the cell’s door, reaching an arm out and down to slide the key into place and click the door open. He paused at that, waiting, but the guards down the hall continued their conversation obliviously and he relaxed slightly. The key left in the door, he slipped out of the cell and across the way: a watch officer’s sword was lying on a table next to the unoccupied cell across from his. The note had said it would be there, and Corvo was...bemused. Hopefully the guard who left it wouldn’t be caught without his issued weapon.

Down the hall and through an open doorway were the block’s guardsmen, a trio of scruffy soldiers seemingly more interested in discussing his upcoming execution than actually guarding him -- the Grand Guard in him was deeply annoyed at their dereliction of duty, but the rest of him was pleased. The worse-behaved the guards were, the easier it would be for him to get out of here. He had to wonder why more people didn’t escape Coldridge; but maybe it was just another sign of how far down the rat plague had dragged Dunwall.

The two in the hall proper were talking animatedly -- enough that Corvo could slip right up to the third in the doorway and catch him around the neck with an arm, pulling him into the hall and behind an upended table. There was a brief, violent temptation to use the sword in his other hand, slit the guard’s throat and leave him to bleed, but...no. The man hadn’t done anything wrong but be in his way -- to kill him would be just out of misplaced spite. No, he shouldn’t -- his fingers twitched around the blade’s hilt, but he left it be and left the guard unconscious in the alcove.

As he came back, the two guards had parted ways -- only one of them was still in the hall, his back to Corvo, and that made it simple to snatch him, too, dragging his unconscious body back to his companion’s hiding spot and leaving the pair there as he headed out of the cell block. He had to be quick, he had to be careful -- being dressed only in a pair of thin, filthy trousers made him stand out, so he had to stay hidden, too.

With the hallway emptied he could slip through towards the connecting footbridge, stealing an abandoned pistol off a half-empty arms rack and slipping that, too, into his waistband. _Just in case._ Better to be over-prepared than underprepared, after all.

The footbridge was behind another door, and peering through the keyhole let him spot another guard on duty on his end of it. A skeleton crew? Maybe they were all preparing for tomorrow. But now, he thought...well, they’d certainly be surprised. The guest of honor wasn’t going to be there. He held the door as he opened it to keep it quiet and grabbed the guard, knocking him out silently and dragging him back into the cell block, tucking the body behind a locker. It was taking a lot of extra time to do this, he thought; methodically knocking out everyone in his path and hiding them. It would be so much easier to just kill his way through -- but no. that was another spiteful,violent thought, and this one surprised him with how... _matter of fact_ it was. Had this all really beaten him down so much that violence seemed that easy? That made him recoil inwardly. He wouldn’t be what they thought he was, no matter how tempting.

Belatedly, he bent to unbuckle the sword-belt of the guard he’d just knocked out, dropping the other man’s sword beside his still form and putting the belt around his waist to hold the stolen pistol and his own borrowed blade properly. He had both hands free now, thank the Void -- that would make things a bit less awkward. Also on the belt was a keyring with a few keys, and he took that too, heading back onto the bridge and using the keys he’d taken to unlock the gate at the other end.

The gate led to the walkway over the yard, the one that split the cellblocks, and he moved across it slowly; a good thing, because another guard was stationed at the other end. Leaving that one unconscious behind him, he headed down the stairs and to the left -- a gift waited for him in the interrogation chamber, the note had said, and he knew exactly where _that_ was. Maybe he’d leave a present for them there, too, while he was at it-- no, too risky. He knew their interrogator was half-mad and rumors abounded in the cells of black magic; he didn’t want to linger and risk the man coming back.

Another key on the ring unlocked the interrogation room’s door, and he entered, shutting it quietly behind him. He cringed at the sight of the room -- a learned reflex after months of regular visits -- and shook his head, walking past the chair and into the room behind it. It was a dingy, rusty storeroom, but at the back was a half-open safe. He headed over to it, pulling it the rest of the way open to reveal a small, clockwork explosive sitting within. He had to smile at that -- how these ‘friends’ had gotten something like this was certainly a mystery, and it was an interesting one at that. Just who were these people helping him?

Leaving the interrogation room led him right to the door to the yard across the way -- and the only way he’d be getting out. Through the yard and control room to the entrance, and blow the door open with the gift dangling from his belt. Putting it in one sentence made it sound so easy, but in practice...not so much. At least the two guards in the yard were preoccupied with an argument and didn’t see him as he slipped along the shadows in the corner.

He stopped at the entrance to the control room, though -- it was a lot more occupied than the rest of the prison so far, and he swore inwardly. Last stretch would be the hardest, of course. He darted into a corner as the man at the gate controls chatted with the other guard (about him again, of course; his execution was on everyone’s mind), and when the two men turned away from his hiding spot, he dashed across the room -- wincing as he slid the last foot or so -- and ducked behind a rack of metal plates. The one outside the room lingered in front of the plates to yawn loudly, and Corvo grabbed him, leaving the unconscious man where he’d been and crouching to creep across the room below sight of the control area’s windows. The gate to get to the front entrance was a huge slab of steel, he knew, that needed to be raised with a switch inside the control room. Getting to the door was easy, and he watched through the keyhole until the guard at the controls left the room before opening the door and -- standing in the doorway -- reaching over to pull the switch. Stretching like that made him cringe, his wounds pulling, but it let him exit the doorway, close the door, and slide through the gate in a matter of seconds.

The guard on the other side of the gate didn’t even notice him, and he was sleeping with the rest soon enough. Dragging him off to the side, Corvo bolted up the steps to the outer door and fumbled the explosive off his belt, knowing guards would notice the explosion: he had to be fast with the rest, now. He stuck it onto the outer door, clicking the timer into place and darting into an alcove -- three seconds that seemed like an hour later, the door blew outwards in fire and smoke, and he could already hear the alarms.

 _Make for the river and lose yourself in the sewers,_ the note had said, and that was easy enough: running out the door led him straight to the raising drawbridge, and he ignored it to take a diving leap off the edge and into the water below. It was icy cold as it always was, the mingling salt water from the sea burning his unhealed wounds. He surfaced with a gasp, gulping down air in the seconds he had before diving again, bullets whizzing by his head to strike the water around him. The sewer gate was close by -- he just had to get there.

Soaking wet -- making him intensely aware both of how little clothing he had and how long his hair had gotten in prison -- and shivering, he scrambled into the sewers, slamming and locking the gate behind him. The front area was disgusting, dripping dirty water and covered in mold, but he ignored that, dashing through it towards the sewers proper, closing that door behind him and locking it, too.

In here, the walls were more metal than natural cave, still dripping with water but much cleaner -- even if it still smelled off garbage and rot. He had some time before they came through; not much, but enough to catch his breath at least.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be -- not two corners of the hall later and he heard guards. _Shit_. they were coming around another corner blocked by a gate, and when he made to try the door, it was locked tight. Glancing around, heartbeat suddenly very noticeable in his ears, he scrambled on top of some crates and onto the steel bars that ran over the hall the guards were entering. It was a terrible hiding place -- one look up and they’d see him -- but it was better than standing there like an idiot. He crawled across it in the direction of the guards; they were coming from deeper in the sewers, which was where he assumed he needed to go, so...fuck, this was risky. But it was necessary.

Suddenly, their conversation broke off into screams, and Corvo froze and crawled faster, looking down as he did so to see what was happening. The sight was disgusting -- rats, dozens of them, the fat black plague rats, swarming the guards. They disappeared beneath the horde screaming, and the smell of blood hit the air. “Void,” Corvo murmured, unsettled. He’d heard stories, but never really seen it for himself before. It had gotten worse in the past months, hadn’t it? And with no Jessamine...how would this end? With Dunwall a burning ruin?

He slid down from the bars on the other end of the hall, heading deeper into the sewers and trying to get the image out of his head. The halls and tunnels let out in the sewers proper, two thin paths on either side of the sewage water draining towards the sea. He shivered again, the cold water having seeped deep into his skin. Another pack of rats ran down the other path and he shuddered, creeping down the side he was on quietly. Rats were almost worse than guards.

A wall blocked his way, so with a grimace he jumped down into the sewage and swam through the tunnel in the wall the water flowed through -- on the other side was another gated wall and a few control panels for sewer maintenance...and corpses. Corvo grimaced at the sight; a pair of dead lovers, twined with each other on an old rotting mattress (sick, probably, coming down here to spend their last hours together instead of in a cell), and a maintenance man still slumped over the door crank to the next chunk of the sewers. “Let’s hope I don’t catch the plague,” he muttered, dragging the maintenance man’s corpse away from the crank. He turned back to look at the dead lovers, murmuring last respects and trying not to think of Jessamine, before he cranked the door open and headed through.

Crossing through an area filled with rotting garbage and gagging at the smell, Corvo entered a large room, empty save for the machinery at the center, pipes leading out from it further into the sewer. As he headed down into the room, he jumped at a noise, and a body fell from the grating above into the room, bouncing off the machinery and onto the ground. A few people -- lazy corpse collectors, from the sound of it -- spoke as they walked away, but Corvo’s attention was on the body...and the horde of rats that scuttled out from under the machine to eat it. They were an odd mix, the huge black plague rats, and some smaller ones native to Dunwall that probably caught it from their bigger counterparts. He watched them eat in badly disguised horror, before shaking it off and darting across the room to climb on top of the machinery. The rats were gorging on the dead man in front of the other door out of the room, he realized -- how was he going to get them away?

Then he noticed the _other_ bodies; this must be a regular dumping spot. He made a face, picking one up and pushing it off the machinery in the opposite direction of the door he needed. Finishing their first course, the rats darted towards their second, leaving the exit exposed and allowing Corvo to sprint across to it.

The exit led back to the sewage flow, though now the water was noticeably clearer; he must be near the sea. The flow ran down to a sealed grating, and he followed it in the opposite direction to a blank wall. There was a ledge above him, though, and with a groan he climbed it, slumping down once he got up there. “This is harder than getting out of Coldridge,” he muttered to himself, frustrated, but shook his head and stood. If there was a chance...he couldn’t-- he had to take it.

Up here he could smell salt water through the garbage and death, and it was reassuring. Climbing the metal steps, he found his way to another crank-operated door, but beside it sat a large crate with a note pinned to it. A glance at it showed his name, and with a relieved sigh, Corvo grabbed it and opened the crate. Within was some folded clothes -- nothing fancy, just clean trousers, boots, and a shirt -- which he changed into quickly. They were dry and warm and clean, and despite the fact that Corvo himself was still damp and filthy... _Void_ , that was much better.

Beneath the clothes was a vial of elixir, which he unscrewed and gulped down thankfully -- the prison had made sure to give everyone a dose a day as mandated, but he’d missed his today and with the slog through the sewers...better safe than sorry. It was bitter and stuck in his mouth as always, but better that than sick.

Also there was a small crossbow, which Corvo attached to his belt next to the pistol and sword with a small smile -- that might come in handier than the gun. Next to it was a piece of black metal, and he picked it up curiously, examining it before waving it experimentally. He let out a startled yelp when a blade extended from what was now a hilt, and stared at the sword. “Damn,” he said finally. “This is...” It was incredibly well-made, now that he knew it was a sword, and he dumped the officer’s blade where he stood, retracting his new weapon and hanging it in its place.

A key dangled from the crank and he took it, heading over to the gate -- relishing the fact that he had _shoes_ now -- and unlocking it. The note had directed him to the sewer’s seaside exit, where someone would be waiting...and that wasn’t too far from here, if the smell of seawater was any indication.

There were a few guards in the final stretch of sewer, but they weren’t hard to take out -- they were all on edge and distracted by their station, hating and fearing the sewers for the rats and the Weepers. They never even noticed him, and they all lay unconscious as he passed.

The sewers turned to a more natural cave, and the smell of garbage faded beneath the scent of the ocean, and he sighed in relief, stopping for a moment to just take it in. The fresh air, the smell saltwater, the cool sea wind...freedom wasn’t something he thought he’d ever see again. He thought his head would be on the chopping block tomorrow -- he thought he’d _failed_. But now he had a chance to make it right. To find Emily, to save her, protect her...to make up for all the things he hadn’t been able to do.

To get revenge -- no, _justice_ for Jessamine. Justice for the Empress he’d lost.

He headed out of the stone tunnel, stopping at the entrance when he saw a boat just in front of him, floating in the waters of where the Wrenhaven met the ocean. Beside it stood an old man with battered but sturdy sailing clothes -- when he saw Corvo, he smiled in genuine relief and held up a hand in greeting, and that alone was enough to move him to near tears. Someone being _happy_ to see him...that hadn’t happened since the day he’d come home, since Emily. It felt like so long ago…

“Over here, Corvo,” the man -- Samuel, the note had said -- called, his voice pitched cautiously low. “Hurry now! I’m a friend.”

Corvo closed the distance, and Samuel’s face softened further. “You look terrible, my friend,” he said, offering him an arm. “Come on, let’s get you to the others. They very much want to meet you, and you need a place to rest.”

“Thank you,” Corvo said, cringing at how hoarse his voice sounded -- it was rough and dry like sandpaper, more of a raven’s croak than anything. “I’ll be alright. Let’s…get out of here.”

* * *

The boat ride wasn’t far -- just across the Wrenhaven, at the old harbor right at the edge of the Flooded District. The Hounds’ Pit Pub, Samuel explained as he piloted the skiff there. Right under the Regent’s nose. The Regent...Burrows. It made Corvo sick to think about that. The bastard, murdering the Empress and setting himself up to lead in her place. What the hell did he _want?_ Did he always want this, or did the plague cause this? And what did he want with Emily? Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the rest of what Samuel had to say; though the old man didn’t seem to mind -- he trailed off after a moment, watching Corvo sympathetically. It was kind of him to worry, Corvo thought, but he’d be fine. Or rather...he _had_ to be fine.

Samuel pulled the boat up to the edge of an empty lot behind the bar, getting out and helping Corvo do the same. Part of him wanted to be irritated with the assistance, but he knew he needed it. His injuries, the six months in prison...he was definitely not at his best. And even if he didn’t like it, he knew better than to turn down help. That’s what this whole thing was, after all -- help. They were helping him fix this.

The old boatman pointed him towards the back door to the pub, and he headed to and through it -- despite being officially closed, the inside was warm and well lit, the sort of pub that he’d always liked back in the days where he’d frequented them. Two people lingered at the other end talking quietly, only to look up when he entered and approach, twin smiles on their faces that weren’t half as sincere as Samuel’s.

One of them was a military man, his face familiar but not enough for Corvo to put a name to it. The other he knew fairly well -- the youngest Pendleton; not as bad as his brothers, no, but not quite someone trustworthy. “Corvo, welcome,” the soldier said with that inoffensive smile, bowing stiffly. “I’m Admiral Farley Havelock--” _Ah,_ Corvo thought, _I knew I recognized him,_ “--a servant of the Empire, until our Lord Regent purged those of us still loyal to the Empress.”

“And-- ah, I suppose you know who I am,” Pendleton said with a rueful smile. “I represent the nobility in our little group, though we’re all equals here, really.”

“Good to meet you both,” Corvo rasped, inclining his head, and was quietly amused at the wince his voice got out of Pendleton. Havelock, to his credit, looked understanding, and leaned over the bar’s counter to pour Corvo a glass of something amber. Corvo took it gratefully, downing the glass in one shot and appreciating the warm burn of the bourbon as it went down. It wasn’t much help, but it was better than nothing.

“I’ll come right out with it,” Havelock continued. “We’ve been building a coalition of loyalists aimed at ending the Regent’s tyranny and restoring the throne.”

Pendleton nodded, butting in as if he wanted to make sure Corvo knew he was involved. “At risk of execution, we’ve been searching for Lady Emily in the hopes of seeing her crowned as Empress.”

Emily, the Empress...Corvo hadn’t thought of that until now. But it was true-- with her mother dead, she was...no doubt that’s why they’d hidden her. “We’ll find her,” he said quietly, though his voice was firm. “No doubt about that.”

“I’m glad to hear you say we, Corvo,” Havelock said. “We have big plans, but we can’t carry them out without you. We need your skills -- and in helping us, _we’re_ going to help _you_ destroy the men who murdered the Empress.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Havelock,” Corvo said. “I’m here, and I’ll do whatever you need.”

The two of them both smiled those surface smiles again, exchanging satisfied looks. Corvo knew not to trust them, of course -- one was an admiral used to politics and the other was a noble, and he didn’t want to believe them just yet -- but for now...he’d see what was going to happen. If he _could_ trust them. He wanted to, he wanted to believe this cause was true and they were loyal, but right now…

Right now he wasn’t sure he could think straight, if he was honest. Now that he was safe his exhaustion was catching up to him, and the glass of liquor hadn’t helped. Pendleton seemed to notice this, though, and sighed. “Sorry,” he said, sounding almost genuine. “You must be exhausted. We can discuss this further after you’ve had some time to recover from your...ordeal. But before you retire to your room -- we have one prepared -- you should really go meet Piero. He’s...challenging, to be sure, but his mind buys him that right, at least.”

“Mmm,” Havelock said with a snort, lighting a cigarette. “He’ll be crafting your gear for you, at least. He’s almost as bright as Sokolov, though don’t tell him I said that -- he’s outside in the old storage building.”

Corvo had to hide a snort at that -- he’d heard of someone named Piero, selling another brand of elixir, so this must be him. That he was with the Loyalists was interesting, and despite how tired he was he supposed he could at least do the man the courtesy of saying hello. And thank you, too, if he was the one who’d made the cunning little blade at his belt.

The old storage building had been converted to a workshop, he noticed as he approached. A metal grinder was whirring away as he entered, and the man working it -- a skinny, jumpy sort that resembled almost a stereotype of a philosopher -- glanced up, squinting through his glasses. “Oh! Hello, Corvo,” he said even as he returned to his work. “I’ll be crafting your weapons and gear for you, depending on what you need.”

He paused, frowning, and growled in annoyance as the grinder machine fell silent, slapping it and opening the port to reveal the empty canister of whale oil. “No, not now!” He complained. “Would you get a new one from upstairs, please?”

“...alright,” Corvo said with a shrug, amused. Definitely like Sokolov -- no thought in his head but his work. But he at least seemed less crotchety than the old Tyvian, and Corvo really didn’t mind fetching another tank of whale oil for him, even if the weight of it made his injured back hurt. The grinder turned back on, Piero hummed in triumph as he finished whatever he was working on, lifting it to show Corvo.

“A mask,” he said proudly. “You’re a wanted man throughout the city, after all, but this mask will hide that recognizable face of yours.” He stepped forward, holding it out back-first. “Can I just-- the measurements need to be precise.”

Corvo nodded. “Go ahead,” he said, leaning down slightly to let Piero place the mask to his face and adjust. It felt strange -- the inside was cloth, so it was soft and cool against his skin, but the lenses narrowed his field of vision and magnified them, somehow.

“Mmm, it’s out of alignment...there,” Piero said, stepping back. “What do you think?”

He reached up to touch the mask, feeling the metal against his fingers, and nodded, removing it to stare down at the black steel death’s-head that looked back at him. “Not bad,” he said. “You made the blade they sent, too, didn’t you? That’s good, too.”

Piero looked startled, and then genuinely pleased. “Thank you,” he said proudly. “I can upgrade them, too -- gear, weapons, munitions. Materials are scarce, though, so if you see anything that might be useful, bring it back and we’ll see what I can do with it.”

“Thank you, Piero,” Corvo said, smiling faintly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Piero nodded, but then frowned, and Corvo realized he was wobbling a little on his feet. “You’re exhausted,” he said. “You should go get some sleep -- you need it. Shoo, shoo.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Corvo said, amused, heading out of the workshop and back into the bar. One of the girls that seemed to work there directed him up to his room -- not much there, just a large empty space with a cot (though it had a mattress, and therefore a million times better than prison) and a lantern.

It wasn’t much, but it was...it was _something_. It was something, and he was asleep almost as soon as he dropped onto the cot.

When he opened his eyes, though...something was definitely wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the world absolutely doesn't need this, but i wanted to write it - think of it as a companion piece of sorts to my DH2 fic, if you want. i even gave them titles from the same poem. it'll be fun to write, really! you never get to see into corvo's head during the first game, really, since he's so quiet, and i love exploring what was happening in there.
> 
> (summary quote is from the crow 1994, which is a heartbreaking movie and also a very fitting source.)


	2. the void & the abbey

The realization that something was very, very wrong pulled Corvo immediately into wakefulness -- he wasn’t sure how deep asleep he’d been, but whatever was going on was more than enough to have done the job. He stood, looking around warily -- nothing seemed to be different about his room at first glance, no, but...he smelled seawater. They were close to the mouth of the Wrenhaven, yes, but the strength of the smell made him think he was on a boat out in the middle of the ocean, not in a building near the coast.

And the quiet...he’d heard the phrase ‘deafening silence’ before, and experienced it perhaps a handful of times in his life, but this lack of sound seemed to redefine the term entirely. What was happening?

Cautiously, he moved to the door to his room, pushing it open with two fingers before peering out -- and the sight made him freeze, the blood in his veins turning to ice. “What…?” He whispered, torn between awe and a primal sort of fear. “Is this--”

The building he stood in had seemingly been torn apart, the opposite wall and roof missing as if it were an ancient ruin. Behind that...was not the sky or the horizon he knew. It was emptiness, endless and echoing and a shade of color Corvo could only name as the color of the thickest fog he’d ever seen. Chunks of stone floated aimlessly in that empty space as far as he could see, none of them remotely similar, and one led away from the hole in the bar as if it were leading him somewhere.

The Void -- that’s what this had to be. The stories he’d heard, the stories the Overseers told...they varied widely, no one ever sure what it looked like. You could never be sure who had _really_ seen it, and Corvo had always had the feeling those that did weren’t fool enough to talk about it and bring the Abbey down on their heads. But that _he_ was here...why?

There was only one way to find out, he supposed, and hesitantly he set forth, climbing the rock and stairway that led away from his room. The air was still in the Void, he realized, silent and unmoving. There was no wind, either, just...emptiness, vast and unending. It felt ancient, like he was disturbing something few men would ever see, something that was somehow alive in its deadness. It sent a chill down his spine.

He emerged on the top of the rock he’d been climbing, stairs seemingly sprouting seamlessly from the stone, and stopped midstep. Uneven cobblestones were under his feet now, and he saw ahead of him a white gazebo that he doubted he’d ever be able to rid from his mind and memory...the place where it had all been destroyed.

His breath caught, and his feet refused to obey -- what would he find if he went there? Jessamine’s spirit, bound to existence by her horrible death? Something worse? Nothing at all, a thought that pained him almost more than if she remained?

As he stood there, warring with his own fear, something else happened -- a movement in the stillness, like a wave rocking a becalmed ship, and some _one_ appeared before him, floating in the air like he was underwater.

It didn’t take a genius to know what this was, who this was -- Corvo didn’t need to see the black of his eyes to know, with a terrible certainty, that this was the Outsider. The black-eyed bastard, people called him. The Abbey insisted he was the source of all that was wrong with the world, of sin and crime and black magic. Witches and heretics prayed to him, and-- the stories told in bars and whispered at night were never certain, never sure, but always told with a mixture of fear and excitement, the thrill of talking about something that could kill you.

But the Outsider in...person, so to speak, wasn’t what Corvo had expected. A monster, maybe, a beast or a twisted man -- a physical form of the evil he represented according to the stories. But...not so. He was a _boy,_ Corvo realized with some cautious bewilderment. He looked like a child, not much older than Emily, though those terrible eyes made him seem so much older. He was thin, dark-haired, and pale, with the blue tinge to his skin of a drowned man, and he wore...just the simple clothes of a sailor.

Regardless, he was still _the Outsider_ , and Corvo was at a complete loss for words. What did one say to a god?

“Hello, Corvo.” The Outsider spoke first, and his name in the being’s voice -- young, yes, but so _empty_ \-- made Corvo flinch reflexively. “Your life has taken quite the turn, has it not? The Empress is dead, her precious daughter Emily is lost somewhere in the city, and you-- you will play a pivotal role in the days to come.”

It smiled, then, and that was empty, too. It was as if he was simply going through the motions of humanity, every action hollow. “For that reason, I have chosen you, and drawn you here into the Void.”

“....chosen?” Corvo repeated, feeling stupid -- but also feeling ice water in his veins again, a knot in his stomach. Chosen by the Outsider...something heretics wanted so desperately but the average person was taught to fear. His hands trembled at the thought, the very idea of-- _chosen_.

“Yes, chosen,” the Outsider repeated, sounding vaguely, distantly amused. “As you might have guessed, I am the Outsider. And this is my Mark.”

As he said that, Corvo’s left hand burst into flames -- or it felt like it, anyway. He let out a cry and curled the hand to his chest, staring at it in shock as a symbol burnt itself into his flesh, a pattern of black curves and lines like a tattoo. It was hard to process what it meant right away, the enormity of it all, but he tore his eyes away from the symbol on his hand and looked back up at the Outsider, who seemed to still be bobbing in exactly the same place and position as he’d appeared in.

The Outsider still seemed amused, in that detached sort of way he had about him. “There are forces in the world and beyond the world, Corvo, great forces that men call magic. Now these forces will serve your will. It is my gift to you -- use them as you will.” He moved, then, gesturing at the Void around them. “Now...come find me.”

Another ripple in the stillness, and he was gone. Corvo swore in Serkonan, then, still holding his hand to his chest. “What the fuck,” he muttered, shaken. “What the _fuck_.” It made no sense. Why him? Why now? What about his situation attracted this being’s notice? Did the Outsider feed on pain? Did he enjoy watching people suffer? But if he did, why give him this mark, this magic? What did he _want?_

And on top of that, the very fact that he’d been given this mark, it was...did that make him a heretic? He hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t wanted it-- it had been _forced_ on him. Did that make him just as bad as any of the witches the Abbey caught? Would they care?

...Did it even matter right now, though? He was a wanted criminal already, what was one more thing on the list? Having the magic didn’t mean he _had_ to use it. It was just-- he _could_. _Think of it as another tool,_ he told himself. He couldn’t let himself be paralyzed with indecision or fear, not now. This thing happening to him, this unexpected, unwanted-- this thing beyond belief, he couldn’t let it stop him from doing what he needed to do.

He shook himself off and pressed forward, heart still hammering in his chest and hand still stinging. The stone he was on ended abruptly a few feet forward, separating him from the floor of the gazebo in the distance with all that was below him more emptiness. He hesitated, then -- if he fell, would he fall forever? Would there be an end to the Void, somewhere deep below? His Mark stung, and he shook his head, bemused at the realization: the Outsider _wanted_ him to use his magic here. Wanted to test him. Of course he did -- of course he did.

He shook his head, forcing away the fear and the trepidation, forcing himself to focus. No fear, no hesitation. He was Corvo Attano, Lord Protector and former Grand Guard. He’d better damn well start acting like it.

He lifted his hand, hoping for some kind of clue as to how this would work, and felt a tug from the Mark, but nothing else. No sign, no indication of what to do with it. He growled to himself, staring at the gazebo; he wanted to be _there_ , damn it. How in the _Void_ \--

He let out a rather undignified yelp, then, when something seemed to shift, his focus on the place he wanted to be _pulling_ , somehow, and after a brief, dizzying moment where he felt weightless, he was crashing to the ground in the gazebo. He swore again, pulling himself to his feet and rubbing his chin where he’d banged it against the stone. So that was how that worked, then? Focus on where you wanted to be and then...be there?

He had to admit, that could be incredibly useful. He’d been afraid the magic had meant something more horrifying, something that matched all the stories told. He flexed his marked hand experimentally, wondering if he’d be able to test it more, when something in the gazebo caught his eye and he froze, focus falling away in the face of his heart being torn in two all over again.

Jessamine-- she was there, the way he recalled her last, crumpled upon the floor with blood staining her shirt, staining the ground. It wasn’t really her, he knew that -- it was all too still, too perfect, like it was shaped from stone -- but he dropped to his knees all the same. “I’m sorry,” he managed, voice faint. “I’m so sorry.” He reached out a hand to her, but recoiled, eyes focusing on what seemed to be words written in the blood beneath her body. _You cannot save her._

It struck him like a blow to the gut and he gasped for air a moment, bowing his head. What torment was this? Was this part of the Outsider’s game, or was this his own conscience torturing him as it did in all his nightmares?

“I know,” he told the Void after a moment, voice still a bit breathless. “But I can save Emily.”

There was nothing but silence after his declaration, but he expected that. He stood slowly on unsteady legs and swallowed, tearing his gaze away from Jessamine’s body and moving to the other end of the gazebo, where he could see more chunks of stone between him and what looked to be another tableau. More of his mind’s tricks, or was this from the being that watched him? He couldn’t be sure until he got there.

At least this would afford him practice, he decided, trying not to think too hard about the guilt that weighed his chest down like an anchor. The first leap forward nearly made him fall again, as he overbalanced and nearly pitched forward. The second was a bit smoother, as he found his footing more quickly, and by the third he was half-sure he had the hang of the-- what was it called? There had to be some name for it, this ability to move from place to place in the span of a blink-- oh. Hm. Well, he could call it _that_ in the meantime.

He was at the tableau now, and as he took it in, his breath caught again; for a very different reason this time. It was a room, or part of one, just the floor and a chunk of a wall as if built for a stage set. It was unremarkably fancy, the same type of room that could be found in any noble house, though the benches and chairs made him think of somewhere else -- he couldn’t place where, though that was the last thought in his mind. He was too focused on Emily.

She was there, frozen in time like a wax statue on display, whole and unharmed but her face twisted in a sort of angry fright, trying to get away from the man with an iron grip on her wrist. He recognized that man, and the man beside him too; not hard, as they were mirror images of one another. _The Pendleton twins_.

The anger that leapt into his chest upon seeing them was sudden and vicious, and he started forward towards the one holding Emily, grabbing him by the neck before he remembered that this was just a show for him. Not the real thing. But it had happened, or was happening, or-- he clenched his hands into fists. “ _Damn_ it,” he snarled, turning to Emily’s effigy and reaching out to cup her cheek. “I’m coming, Emily,” he said, his voice softer. “I promise.”

With renewed purpose, he made his way across the path of stone islands ahead of him -- he was sure now that this was some kind of a test, a path that would take him to wherever the Outsider wanted him to go. A path whose steps led him through images that...he wasn’t sure why they were there? To punish him? To torment him? To remind him of his purpose? It all depended on what sort of creature the Outsider really was, he supposed.

The magic that let him ‘blink’, as he’d decided to call it, proved versatile -- he could cross long distances with it, and it let him get up on high ledges without needing to climb. He had to admit to himself that despite the very concept of using magic making him a little wary, the magic itself was incredibly useful. Maybe he could just...ignore the implications and enjoy the advantage it gave? He’d have to see when he was out of this place; he wasn’t sure if it was being here in the Void that was making him so willing to accept this gift or not.

After what seemed like an age of moving forward -- an age or a few moments; time seemed fluid here in this abyss -- he blinked across one more gap and caught himself easily, hesitantly pleased at the fact that he’d gotten the hang of it. As he started forward, he stopped when he felt that ripple in the stillness that he’d come to assume heralded the Outsider’s presence, and the being himself appeared before him again.

“Hello, Outsider,” Corvo said, before the being could speak, and he took some small pleasure in seeing the startled expression on its face before he allowed himself a small smile.

“In the days that follow, your trials will be great, Corvo,” he told him. “Seek out the lonely places of your world, the shrines raised in my name, and seek the runes bearing my Mark you will find there. These runes will grant you more power, powers beyond those of other men.” More magic, then? Corvo wasn’t sure if he wanted it, but it was...if it would help, then he’d...he was pulled out of the beginnings of his thoughts as the Outsider continued. “To help you find these runes I give you another gift; the Heart of a living thing, molded by my hand.”

It appeared in the Outsider’s hand, then -- a heart, big enough to be human, with wires and clockwork within and without that made it more than what it had once been. It was disturbing to say the least, but Corvo reluctantly took it when it was held out to him. It didn’t feel like a heart -- it felt soft and warm, like someone’s hand, and that was almost worse.

“With this Heart, you will hear many secrets, and it will guide you to my runes no matter how well they are hidden,” the Outsider told him. “Listen to it now, and find one.”

He was gone again, then, and Corvo frowned down at the Heart in his hand. It was silent, warm and pulsing gently, but when he held it up it began to beat quicker, the lens in its wiring beginning to glow like a lantern. He paused, turning slightly and noting that when he did the beating slowed. So that was how it worked, then. Turning so that it was beating fast again, he made his way up more steps and across stone walls, following the pulse of the Heart.

“This was a living thing, once,” he said to himself, to fill the silence. “I wonder what...or who, I suppose.” It seemed more likely to be a who. “What secrets will you have for me, I wonder?”

 _‘This place…’_ Corvo stiffened and stopped, staring down at the thing in his hand. That voice, had he heard it right? Was that-- was this-- _‘This place is the end of all things...and the beginning,’_ the voice continued, faint and quiet as if from far away. _‘I am...I was alive, once...I know your voice, the warmth of your hand...that is no more. I begin again…as something else.’_

The sudden urge struck Corvo to throw it away from him, as far as he could, sickened and pained. This was _hers_. He held her-- what remained of Jessamine sat in his hand, whispering to him secrets, nothing more now than a tool forged by the Outsider. How could he do this? Did he know, did he care? Did Corvo care, really, what he’d done...could he care when this thing in his hand spoke to him in a voice he thought he’d never hear again? The last remnant of his beloved, here with him still. Was he a hypocrite to be angry with the Outsider for doing this even as he knew he would cling to it as long as he could? Perhaps.

In any case, he let her -- let the Heart lead him forward, and when he saw where the path ended he let out a startled laugh. As if he couldn’t find _that_ on his own. It was a shrine, yes, but the Void had painted it in shadow and color, the drapes like wings floating in the expanse behind it. It was lit with lanterns that burned violet, and when he approached at the center was a thing of driftwood and wire, a carved whalebone atop it. The carved piece must be the rune, Corvo decided, as it had the mark on it, and he picked it up in his free hand. A jolt of something ran through his arm when he did, and he gasped aloud and let go of it. Something was different, he was sure, something he knew innately -- but he didn’t know what, not yet. He supposed he’d find out in practice soon enough.

As if on cue after he let go of the rune, the Outsider reappeared, still floating and still almost unmoving from the pose he’d first shown himself in. “How you use what I’ve given you is up to you, Corvo, as it has been for all the others before you,” he said, and there almost seemed to be something in his voice now, the being sounding a fraction more human for the first time. “I will return you to your world now, but know that I will be watching...with great interest.”

It was only after the being vanished again, as he felt himself fade back to the oblivion of sleep, that he recognized what had been in the being’s words at the end -- some odd mix of resignation and hope, something that made Corvo curious, but then he was gone and the train of thought ended there.

* * *

He woke with a start, sitting up immediately and looking around. The smell of liquor and stale air and the sound of bustle and conversation below reassured him, though, as did the sun coming through the dusty windows. This was real, this time. He let out a breath and sat up, running his hands through his shaggy hair and shaking his head. Had that all been a dream? It had certainly felt very real...but it was the Void. Was anything real there?

He swallowed and lowered his left hand, almost hesitantly glancing down at the back of it and letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when he saw the mark on it, burned there in ink black. “Not a dream, then,” he muttered. “So be it.” If he was marked,then he’d use it. The decision still felt like the right one now that he was out of that place, which was strange, but he supposed...well, he’d said he’d do anything for Emily, hadn’t he? If that meant he had to rely on these gifts, then...he’d do it.

He stood with a wince, looking around the room and seeing a folded ple of cloth on the table beside his bed. A note was pinned to it, and he went to check what it was.

 _‘Corvo,’_ the note read. _‘We pulled strings with a maid in the Tower, and she was able to get some clothes of yours for you_. _We imagine you want to be at your best when work begins. There is a washroom on the second floor -- we will be in the bar whenever you’re ready.’_

He chuckled at that, shaking his head and tugging the note off his clothes, moving to the door and heading down the stairs -- noticing for the first time that the third floor was bricked closed -- and onto the second floor. It was empty, whatever employees that remained most likely busy elsewhere, and that was just fine with Corvo. He could lock the door to the washroom and feel safe at least in that no one would startle him. _Void_ , he’d become paranoid.

He tried to clean up quickly -- at least get the layers of grime from prison and the sewers off him, even if he didn’t treat his wounds -- and get dressed, appreciating the familiar comfort of the clothes they’d gotten for him. There was a razor at the sink and he used that to shave, frowning at his face in the mirror. He looked better without the rat’s nest of a beard, true, but there was still his hair, long enough now to brush his shoulder and hang in his face, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes that made his hollow cheeks stand out even more starkly. He thought about cutting his hair short again, but he’d already wasted enough time. It wasn’t really necessary, either.

Done with that -- though he still wasn’t comfortable without gloves, as the Mark was still in stark relief against his skin -- he headed down to the first floor and the bar, where he knew Pendleton and Havelock were waiting.

“Ah, Corvo!” Havelock was there, but Pendleton wasn’t; not that that surprised him, really. Nobles had their own business. “You look much better today. Had a good rest?”

“Yeah,” he agreed -- he wouldn’t call it _good_ , but at least he was feeling more himself again. “Are we ready to begin?”

“We are,” Havelock said with a nod, and then fell silent a moment, long enough for Corvo to start being wary. “I...well, you have my apologies for not bringing this up sooner, but--”

Corvo frowned, but then caught Havelock’s gaze flicking to the blade and crossbow on his belt. “You want me to kill them all,” he said, realization making his voice harden. “That’s what you need me for.”

“I wouldn’t have put it so bluntly, but yes,” Havelock admitted. “I know assassination is dark business, Corvo, but sometimes good men have to do bad things to make the world right.”

“The way you put it makes it sound so easy,” Corvo said, trying not to sound too bitter. “I suppose it is for _you_ , though.” They were just sending him out to commit murder, then, were they? He couldn’t say it was entirely unexpected. It was the first thing a military mind would jump to, and Havelock was certainly that. It wasn’t like Corvo hadn’t killed anyone before, either. Oh, no, there was certainly blood on his hands. But this was different -- this wasn’t killing someone in a fight, or killing people who attacked his charges. This was assassination, murder plain and simple.

And maybe the worst thing was that Corvo wasn’t sure that he minded.

Havelock cleared his throat awkwardly. “Our purpose is to restore her majesty’s line by finding and putting Emily Kaldwin on the throne. To those ends, we must hide, act in shadows. We have to take them apart, piece by piece.” He crossed his arms. “And if that means asking you to dirty your hands, then…it’s what we all have to live with.”

“Fine,” Corvo said, dropping the subject. He’d face it when he was face to face with it. No point in arguing. “So what’s our first move?”

Havelock nodded, seemingly glad to move into business. “Tonight, High Overseer Campbell dies by your hand. You know it won’t be easy, of course, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“Campbell?” Corvo asked. “Why him?” He knew -- or assumed -- the Pendletons had Emily. He wasn’t sure what the High Overseer had to do with her; he knew he’d have to take the man down eventually, but so soon?

“Yes,” Havelock said. “He carries a journal, a private diary. We think it contains Emily’s whereabouts -- get it when you take care of him. Recovering her is critical.”

“On that, I can agree,” Corvo said quietly. That journal...it would make it easier than hunting down the twins and making them tell him, he supposed. And a bit less…unnecessarily violent, though again, he wasn’t sure he’d mind.

Havelock smiled that insincere politician’s smile again, and then paused. “One more thing -- Campbell is holding a former Overseer named Martin, one of our people. If you can find him...do whatever you can. He’s a master strategist, and having him here will be a great help. ”

“Martin,” Corvo repeated. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.” He wasn’t sure he trusted a former Overseer; they were tricky people to deal with on good days, and with his newfound status as a heretic...well. Here’s hoping Martin was a reasonable sort.

* * *

One of the bar’s employees, Lydia, managed to cajole Corvo into having something to eat -- not much, just a bit of toast and some jellied eels she fixed, but it was still miles better than prison food, and he found himself struggling not to scarf it down. After that, though, Havelock told him Samuel would take him down to the Distillery District, and Corvo didn’t waste much time after that.

As he left the bar, though, a young woman caught him by the arm, her thin face tired and worried. “Corvo, hello, I’m sorry, I know you must be in a hurry--”

“It’s alright,” he reassured her automatically. “What’s wrong?”

The woman looked a bit relieved. “I’m Callista,” she told him. “I-I work for Admiral Havelock. I’m sorry to intrude, again, but this is-- you’re going off to kill the High Overseer, aren’t you?” She paused, and Corvo didn’t respond, just inclined his head in acknowledgement. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. He had to decide, but...not now. “I know there’s not--” She swallowed. “My uncle is Geoff Curnow,” she told him. “He’s a City Watch captain, but he’s a good man, and the things I’ve heard...I’m afraid Campbell is going to kill him. The servants have been gossiping that he just received delivery of a powerful poison, and my uncle, he’s not-- he’s not corruptible like the others. Please, do you think you could…?”

“I’ll make sure he survives the night, Callista,” Corvo promised her. “I know your uncle, and you’re right, he’s...he’s a good man. I won’t let anything happen to him.” Geoff...she was his niece? He remembered the man talking about his family while they’d been traveling companions. He’d mentioned her, hadn’t he? The bright young woman who wanted to sail? In that case, he needed to...he wouldn’t let Geoff die. It was strange to think of him as a friend after all this time, but he was. Geoff Curnow was a good friend, and he wouldn’t let anything happen. It was the least he could do.

“Oh, thank you,” Callista said, relieved. “Thank you.”

She bowed to him politely, darting back inside and letting him head down to the dock where Samuel waited. On his way there, he stopped by Piero, who happily provided him with the things he’d requested -- the darts for his crossbow were slipped onto his belt, and his mask was in his hand as he joined the boatman in his skiff.

The Distillery District was at the other end of Dunwall past Kaldwin’s Bridge, and it took them nearly an hour to get there. The sun was setting at this point -- Corvo had to wonder how long he’d slept -- and by the time they got there, it was mostly dark. The mask felt heavy on his face, though it fit comfortably, and he tugged the hood of his coat up over his head as his boots hit the street.

He was a ghost now, wasn’t he, a phantom in a mask. No one would know who he was, now, and, well...this was the first step.

Once Samuel was out of sight, he blinked himself up to one of the nearest empty balconies to examine the streets below. The boatman had told him about the walls of light checkpoints -- he’d heard of them, heard what they could do, but hadn’t seen them in action: and he didn’t want to, either. So he’d have to find a way around them. The alleys, maybe? They still all led to Holger Square. He shifted forward onto the railing, perching on it and scanning the area for another place to blink to.

He narrowed his eyes to focus, and then nearly fell off the railing in surprise -- his vision seemed to blur and fade back in, everything a little...different. The air was tinged dark, and he could see warm-lit bodies pacing back and forth around him on the streets...and even within the buildings! A paler glow seemed to emanate from their front sides that shifted with them as they turned, almost as if to indicate where they were looking. “What in the…” He murmured. “Is this…” It had to be magic, magic that somehow let him see differently, see-- people, movement, predict where they were and what they could see. “Incredible...” He couldn’t imagine this as some sort of heresy, to be honest: it wasn’t some wicked black magic, though he was sure it could be used for all sorts of criminal activity. But the magic _itself_ wasn’t…Void, he was starting to think like a heretic.

He shook his head and the strange second sight faded, leaving him with a minor headache pulsing behind his eyes. He’d have to use it sparingly, he decided, and blinked to the building across the way. This part wouldn’t be too hard. It was once he got to the square, headed into Campbell’s office...that would be more difficult.

This wasn’t normally what he did, he reflected. He wasn’t a spy or assassin and never had been -- the Lord Protector didn’t sneak across rooftops, carefully knocking out guards and tucking them behind stairwells or in rooftop garbage bins. Neither did a Grand Guard, for that matter. But for some reason, it wasn’t...he wasn’t have that much trouble getting used to doing it. People changed when their lives ended, perhaps. His life had certainly ended six months ago. Who he was now...well, the man he was now was up on these rooftops like a shadow, and for all he knew, he’d be an assassin, soon, too.

A commotion below him made him pause on the edge of a roof, glancing down to see three burly, very drunk men -- Bottle Street, from the looks of them -- kicking at someone’s door, catcalling her. Her? They were referring to her as Granny, so he assumed...ah. Samuel had mentioned some mad old woman named Granny Rags, hadn’t he? Were these idiots trying to break in and harass her?

He sighed. It would take time out of his mission here, yes, but-- he did feel a bit bad for this old woman. Dealing with things like this and still refusing to leave? Well, he could at least make tonight that much less of a trial. He blinked over to her roof and watched the trio for a moment, deciding they were far too drunk to be much of a real threat at the moment. Sober, he knew the gangs of Dunwall were difficult to handle for a good reason. But like this? Not so much.

With a smile behind the mask (that made part of him a little concerned), he leaped down, blinking halfway so he landed on top of one of the men, slamming his head into the concrete. Standing, he grabbed the others by the collars and smashed their heads into each other. The two staggered, staring at the man who’d appeared out of nowhere -- taking in the weapons at his belt, and the black steel skull on his face. “Fuck!” One shouted, and grabbed their unconscious friend. The three of them made a dash for it, and Corvo sighed. He wouldn’t worry about the fact that he’d enjoyed scaring them right now.

He moved to the door cautiously, leaning against it. “Granny Rags?” He called, bemused at how his voice sounded beneath the mask, muffled and harsh. “They shouldn’t be harassing you anymore.”

There was an almost cackling laugh through the door that made him wince, and an old woman’s voice called back. “Oh, thank you, dearie! You shouldn’t have. Come in, come in around the back, Granny’s got a gift for a kind young man.”

Corvo hesitated a moment, not really sure he wanted to deal with her any further, but sighed -- it wouldn’t hurt to make nice with people; he might need their help later. Shaking his head, he blinked back up to the roof and down the other side, landing onto an open balcony that led into the woman’s apartment. Her...whole apartment, he noted. She clearly lived in the whole thing. Her and what seemed like more rats than anyone should be comfortable with.

The old woman was on the bottom floor, muttering to herself as if speaking to someone and clinking tableware about -- she looked as if she’d been Somebody, once, a long time ago, and still dressed the part, even if her expensive clothes were old and worn and her face was deeply lined and weathered. She turned to face him, or his direction, as her eyes were the glossy white of the blind, and smiled, revealing crooked and rotting teeth.

“There you are, dearie,” she said, her voice still clear and coherent despite her age and madness. “I thought I knew your scent. Yes, you’ll like my gift just fine, I think.” She motioned to the door beside her. “That way, dearie, just for you. And there’s more where that came from, should you like to do an old woman another favor.”

“...What sort of favor?” He asked cautiously, approaching the door and trying not to take his eyes of the woman, who seemed to radiate...something, some sort of stillness that was both familiar and incredibly disconcerting.

“Those silly boys, the ones that think the streets here are theirs” she said, turning away from him. “If you would be such a dear and get rid of them for me, I’d be ever so grateful. _All_ of them.”

Those boys...the Bottle Street gang? It didn’t take long for Corvo to decide not to even consider what she was suggesting -- not only could he not take on an entire gang on his own, with or without any sort of help from her, the simple fact was that he didn’t want to murder an entire gang for _anyone’s_ sake. It was just unnecessary. (Besides, at this point he’d decided that the old woman genuinely scared him.)

Grateful she was blind, he slipped out of the apartment in the direction she’d indicated, nearly tripping over a lantern in his haste. Righting himself, he followed the purple-lit lanterns around a corner to...well. That explained a lot. A shrine sat there, far less impressive than the one in the void, but still oddly beautiful -- lit with the purple candles and lanterns and draped in violet silk, it sat there bathing the entire alley in an otherworldly glow. A rune sat there upon it -- his gift, he assumed, making him even more wary of the old woman. She knew of all this magic business, and she was probably magic herself. Definitely not a good plan to deal with her more than necessary.

He approached the shrine cautiously and picked up the rune, bracing himself for the jolt to his arm that would follow -- he was expecting that, but he certainly wasn’t expecting the world around him to disappear, changing into the silent abyss of the Void, and he wasn’t expecting the Outsider to appear, floating in front of him like a black-eyed judge.

“Be careful, Corvo,” he said, and he was surprised to hear something like distaste in the being’s voice. “They call her Granny Rags -- you wouldn’t recognize her real name, or even the name of her family, but she once had an Emperor beg for her hand, and rich young men across the Isles fought each other for her favor. I watched her consider them all and find them wanting, and then I watched her make a different choice.”

He trailed off and made as if to speak again, but -- surprised at himself -- Corvo interrupted. “She interested you, then? Like I did? She wasn’t always...like _this_ , then, or I’d start to be concerned with your taste along with everyone else’s.” He went pale even as the words left his mouth, realizing to his horror that he’d just insulted the Outsider himself to his face -- if half the stories were true he was as good as dead for that, wasn’t he? Void, he needed to learn to keep his damn smart mouth in check. He’d gotten so good at that while he was Lord Protector, but apparently he’d forgotten all his lessons.

For his part, the Outsider looked genuinely taken aback at Corvo’s comment, enough so that he was quiet for a good half a minute. And then he laughed, and Corvo relaxed somewhat. It was a very startled laugh, and clearly not well-used, and made him sound young. “Once upon a time, no, she was much different,” he said. “The years have not been kind to Granny Rags, and it’s a shame.” A pause, and he leaned in slightly. “I would hope my taste isn’t so bad, considering I chose _you_ , Corvo,” he added. “Or is there something I should know?”

“N-No,” Corvo managed, relieved that he didn’t seem to be getting killed on the spot for disrespect. “I didn’t mean…”

“Oh, I know what you meant,” the Outsider told him, then crossed his arms. “You’re on your way to the High Overseer, aren’t you?” He asked, though Corvo knew he knew the answer to that. “The leader of a great cult, dedicated to loathing me,” he mused. “What will you do, I wonder?”

There it was again -- that strange mix of resignation and hope in his voice that Corvo had noticed before. What did he expect? Coro almost asked, but -- then he was gone and the world filled itself in again, and he was back at the shrine. He let out a sigh as he relaxed, shaking his head. He’d honestly expected to be struck down for daring to be smart-mouthed at the Outsider, but...apparently he hadn’t minded? Another strange thing.

In any case, he had to get going -- he’d wasted enough time as it was.

* * *

Sticking to the rooftops, Holger Square wasn’t that far away. Across a few dozen more apartment buildings, over the top of a tunnel, and he was there overlooking it. His first observation was that there was someone kneeling on the monument in the center -- his second was that the figure was in metal stocks, and an Overseer paced in front of him. Was that Martin? He really had been caught, then.

He glanced around and blinked down to the roof of one of the trolleys, stationary in the corner of the square. Neither man saw him yet, and that was good -- he was waiting for his chance. Upon watching them, he noted that Martin didn’t look like much of an Overseer; the man was about his age, dark haired and scruffy, and with a hard-eyed look about him that spoke of someone who’d seen a lot more than just the inside of one of those masks. Interesting. The fact that he was catcalling his guard with crude jokes about his wife, too, wasn’t very much like a man of the cloth, and Corvo had to admit he liked the man already. Better than the stiff, military-minded Havelock or Pendleton (who he had to admit he was biased against due to the man’s brothers), at least.

Slipping down off the trolley, he waited until the Overseer’s back was turned and crept up to him, grabbing him around the neck and dropping him once he was unconscious. He bent to make sure he was out, and looked up to see Martin watching him with interest.

“Corvo, then?” He asked. “Knew you’d come -- good to see you got out of Coldridge alright; wasn’t sure they could have pulled it off without me.” He laughed, and then rattled the metal stocks holding him in place. “Want to get these for me? I’ll buy you a drink back at the pub.”

Corvo stifled a snort and approached. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Martin,” he said dryly.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Martin replied. “What a sight you are in that mask, though! Piero really outdid himself.” He had the sort of voice, Corvo thought, that always sounded amused no matter the situation. He stepped to the side to pull the release lever for the cuffs, and Martin yelped as he fell forward, before picking himself up. “Ugh-- feels good to stand up straight again. My knees are going to feel that for a while. Wrists, too. Thank you, Corvo.”

He rubbed his wrists and then looked around, before leaning in slightly to continue. “What you’re here to do tonight, it’s incredibly important -- we have to find Emily, though I’m sure you’re more aware of that than the rest of us. So kill Campbell, make it quick, and then search his body for his journal.” Corvo nodded absently at that, wondering what it was about him that made everyone so quick to assume he’d be alright with murder. “Campbell’s meeting with a guard named Curnow tonight, and my informants say he’s going to poison the man. You could probably use that to your advantage, if you want.”

“I heard about that, too,” Corvo said, but left it at that. He was more concerned about saving the captain than using the situation, but maybe Martin was right.

Martin nodded, satisfied. “Right, so, I’m useless here at this point,” he said with a snort. “So I’ll head back to our base on my own. If I see old Sam, I’ll tell him to pick you up in the back of the offices.

“Thanks,” Corvo said, and took his time hiding the unconscious Overseer inside the trolley while Martin left. Once he was gone, he blinked back up to the roofs and over the stone wall and iron fence around the offices. He paused, then, as the yard was full of Overseers both on patrol and simply talking, and waited for his chance to continue.

A pair of them directly below him -- he used the spyglass lens Piero had told him was on the mask, incredibly impressed with how useful it was -- were discussing something that caught his interest. The Heretic’s Brand...he’d heard of it before, though there were few accounts of it actually being used. A way to cast out Overseers who’ve committed crimes against the order...he filed that information away, and blinked over their heads when they walked away.

On top of the low office building, he could see above him an open second-floor window. He shifted his weight, readying himself to blink up there, when he heard voices below him. He paused, glancing down, and then smiled faintly. Geoff. Good, that was good -- he wasn’t even in there, yet. That would save him time. He watched the man and his two guards enter the gates and pass below him, and then -- when the two guards had headed into the office to leave Geoff to enter the building alone -- he blinked down behind the man and caught him around the neck with an arm as if to knock him out.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, just loud enough for the other man to hear -- Geoff let out a quiet gasp as he recognized him. “Campbell’s got it out for you, and I don’t want you involved in what will happen tonight. You’ll be alright. Just lay low for a while.” A pause. “Callista sends her love,” he added as an afterthought, and then knocked him out cold. He picked up Geoff carefully over one shoulder, using his free hand to open a nearby dumpster and toss him in there. It was filthy, sure, but he’d stay alive this way, and more importantly he wouldn’t be blamed for whatever ended up happening to Campbell.

That done, he blinked back up to the office roof and through the second floor window. Landing quietly on the floor, he hurriedly climbed onto a cabinet and then onto a bookcase, wincing slightly at the small gap between the top of the shelf and the ceiling. At least he was hard to spot like this, uncomfortable as it was.

A cursory glance around the hallways showed him the direction to Campbell’s meeting room, and that the large electric lamps that hung above the hall had shades large enough and sturdy enough by far to hold his weight. It was strange to think about things like this, he mused, blinking to one of them and crouching. He had magic to take into account, now, on top of having to think like a spy or assassin. A far cry from Lord Protector...but this was who he had to be now.

The window above the meeting room door was open, allowing him to duck through the space and crouch on the durable glass of the window. Campbell was already in there, pacing back and forth and looking angry -- probably because Geoff hadn’t shown up. A tray sat on the table with a bottle of wine and two full glasses, and Corvo didn’t doubt one of them already had poison in it.

He tried to be rational, he really did -- it wouldn’t do anything to let his anger override common sense -- but watching Campbell, watching him angrily take a drink of wine straight from the bottle, watching him be so frustrated about losing his chance to murder Geoff Curnow -- murder a _friend_ \-- Corvo saw red.

He didn’t realize he’d moved until he came back to himself, realizing he was on top of Campbell’s unconscious form with a knee on his back and his hands around his neck. The shock of those realizations was enough to make him recoil backwards, falling and staring at the man’s still form. He was breathing still, and that was-- was that good? That was good, _Void_ , what had he almost done?

The experience was enough for him to be sure of what he wanted to do; he felt _sick,_ horrified at the thought that he’d almost killed a man without even realizing. Even if it was Campbell, even if it was one of the men who’d ruined his life and murdered Jessamine, the thought that he’d very nearly killed him like _that_ , killed him without even being aware of it...he didn’t want to become that kind of man. He didn’t want to be the kind of man that killed without a thought, the kind of man for whom killing was something he didn’t even need to consider. Would he deserve Emily, if he became that man? Would he be able to hold her hand, then?

He pulled himself up to his feet, staring down at Campbell. “Right, then,” he murmured. “You’re a damned lucky man, Campbell. Lucky that I won’t sink to your level. Lucky that I’m only going to ruin your life.”

He hauled the big man over his shoulder and slipped through the doors to the office -- unsure if he could actually blink with a passenger -- heading on quiet footsteps back to where he’d seen the interrogation chamber. The halls were empty now, given how late it was, and rain came down in sheets outside the windows. He dropped Campbell at the door and tried it, only to realize it was locked. He swore under his breath in Serkonan, wondering if he still remembered how to pick locks, when he felt something on his foot.

He looked down and froze, seeing it was a rat. He stared down at it, and it looked up at him, and then-- as if he hadn’t already been shocked enough tonight -- he heard its voice. Or at least, he assumed it was the rat. Something in the back of his head seemed certain that it was, something that just _knew_. A part of him that the magic must have awakened, maybe. Either way, the little creature spoke to him, in a voice like a child’s.

_Man smells of other place. You are friend? Smell says you are. Need small paws, sharp eyes, clever nose? Friend calls us, we come._

Was this what Granny’s rune had given him? He knelt, cautiously allowing the rat -- a small one, not a plague rat -- to skitter onto his hand. “I do need you, actually,” he said in a whisper. “I need to get into the room here. Can you help me do that?”

 _Friend needs inside,_ the rat repeated. _Yes, yes we can! Wait here._ It leaped off his hand and skittered away, and he swore he saw a few more peel themselves from the shadows to follow. Where had they come from? Were they always in here, and just responded to Corvo’s magic, or did his magic call them here from elsewhere? He couldn’t be sure, but...it was almost funny, now that the initial surprise had faded. Befriending rats. Who would have thought? Of all creatures…

It was only minutes later that they returned, three of them now, one of them carrying a key in its mouth. It dropped it on the ground, and Corvo was oddly relieved to see that neither the key or the rats had blood on them. _Key for room!_ It said proudly. _Smells same as room. Friend can get in now._

“Thank you,” Corvo said softly, picking the key up and unlocking the door. “Now get out of here, alright? You shouldn’t be in buildings.”

 _Safer outside, yes, safe in darkness and dirt and under thrown away things. We go now. Friend needs us, friend calls, we come._ That said, the rats seemed to vanish back into the shadows an Corvo hauled Campbell into the interrogation room. He dumped him in the chair, pausing to grab the notebook from the man’s belt and shoving it into his coat. “Right, then,” he said, moving over to the shelves in the room. “Let’s see…”

It was -- one of the papers in the desk detailed the Heretic’s Brand like he’d thought, and the brand itself and the bottle of chemicals was in one of the cabinets. There was a metal bowl in the room, probably for Void only knew how many different things, and he put the brand inside it and dumped the bottle on the end. It hissed and smoked, and Corvo cringed. Well-- it wasn’t like it was any worse than what he’d had done to Corvo for the past six months.

He picked it up, moving back over to Campbell and grabbing his face with one hand, tilting it to the side and -- after a moment’s hesitation -- pressed the brand into his cheek and forehead. The chemicals hissed and Campbell screamed as it burned him. Corvo could see his eyes focus for a moment, first on the brand and then on the mask, and then he slumped forward again, raw skin smoking slightly.

“Now everyone will see what kind of man you really are, Campbell,” Corvo said quietly, more to himself than anything. “And you’ll be treated like you deserve. It’s the least I could do.”

He could have killed him. He’d wanted to kill him -- still did. But he knew the moment he’d realized his hands were around Campbell’s throat...he knew he didn’t want to want it. This, this alternative, it was more fitting, and it was something that would last forever. Not a quick end, a punishment that lasted moments. Somehow it was more satisfying, and that maybe made it worth it. That Campbell would know who had done this and why, and spend the rest of his life regretting what he’d done.

The memory hit him, then, of years ago, years before all this. He couldn’t remember the crime or the name of the man who had committed it, but Jessamine had sent him away, sent him to one of Gristol’s many mines. He remembered asking her why -- why hadn’t she just had him executed? And he remembered what she’d said.

 _“Death is an ending, Corvo,”_ she’d said. _“Death doesn’t teach anyone anything -- it just ends a life. But living, that’s different. He’ll have to live with the thought of what he’s done for the rest of however many days he has left, and with the consequences of it. Maybe he’ll learn from that, maybe he won’t. But it’s better than simply ending it, no lesson learned.”_

Living was different, living was worse -- and Campbell would live.

* * *

After all that, getting out of the offices and into the backyard where Samuel waited on the river was simple. He blinked down to the edge of the dock and walked over, managing a genuine smile beneath the mask when the boatman smiled at him. “Hello, Corvo.”

“Hello, Samuel,” he replied, and the two didn’t speak further until they were out on the water, Corvo taking his mask off and pulling his hood down with a relieved sigh.

“Heard the High Overseer led a pretty posh life,” Samuel mused aloud. “Maybe it’s not my place to say, but I never thought men of the faith should live like barons.”

“Can’t say I disagree,” Corvo said. Just one more thing on the list of things he’d deserved to be punished for. He found himself drifting off slightly as they sailed along; he’d been more tired than he’d thought, apparently -- but shook himself awake when they docked. It was late, still very late, but Corvo could almost see the first fingers of dawn in the sky, peeking over the horizon. Void, he wasn’t going to get much sleep, was he? Then again, he doubted he’d have any real rest, with his nightmares. The only reason he’d slept well last night was thanks to the Outsier’s visit.

“Admiral Havelock and Lord Pendleton are waiting for you in the courtyard,” Samuel said, steering the skiff up to the pub’s docks. “I expect they’ll want to talk.”

“Probably,” Corvo agreed. By now word had probably started to spread of what had happened to Campbell, and he didn’t doubt he was in for it for not killing him. At least he had the notebook. As Corvo started up the steps, he was caught by Callista -- she’d been waiting by the dock, and he hadn’t noticed until she tugged at his sleeve. Her expression was relieved and grateful, and something in him relaxed slightly.

“He’s alive,” she told him simply, and he knew his own relief was plain on his face. “Thank you, Corvo, thank you. You saved him.”

“I did,” Corvo agreed. “But you don’t need to thank me. He’s a friend. I was glad to make sure he’d be alright.”

She smiled. “He said as much,” She admitted. “And he asked me to thank you on his behalf, too. Your secrets are all safe with him -- he didn’t ask and he won’t tell.”

“I trust him,” Corvo reassured her. “He’s...a good man.” The less he knew the better, and he seemed to understand that, too. Good. He nodded at Callista, and she let him head up the steps to where Pendleton was watching Havelock shoot at empty liquor bottles. He stopped when Corvo approached, turning to smile at him. It was a fraction more sincere, and so was Pendleton’s, and Corvo...had to relax slightly once again. Maybe they weren’t quite as untrustworthy as he’d thought. He’d expected them to be angry he hadn’t gone through with it, done something else.

“You did it, Corvo,” Havelock said, holding his arms out in a gesture of welcome. “Against the odds, you took down High Overseer Campbell. I can’t truthfully say we all had complete faith, but you certainly proved us all right in trusting you. I knew you were our man.” He glanced at Pendleton as he spoke, and Corvo was honestly amused. Figured. “With Campbell gone, it’s an immense blow to the Lord Regent, and with Martin back we’ll have one of the finest strategic minds on our side.”

“Glad to know he made it back,” Corvo said. That was a relief, and he was honestly glad Martin was there. He’d liked the man.

Pendleton pulled a flask from his coat and took a swig, returning it with the practiced motions of an alcoholic. “The Lord Regent must be shitting himself up there in Dunwall Tower,” he noted, sounding pleased with himself.

“I’m sure,” Havelock agreed with some annoyance at the interruption, though Corvo chuckled. “And Campbell’s journal is ours, too -- with any luck, within the pages is Emily’s location. We need her, and need her unharmed, more than anything else. Without the rightful heir...”

Corvo fell silent. “I know,” he muttered, and turned to leave. The two of them could discuss her necessity to the cause all they wanted. She was more than that to him, so much more. More than the Loyalists knew, even if they suspected. The others paused at his departure, but picked up the conversation again easily enough. They didn’t need him for that.

He stopped to thank Piero on his way into the inn -- the philosopher was over the moon at the praise of his mask, and pressed some new inventions into Corvo’s hands (mines he said would stun whoever tripped them and darts that had a chemical which would put someone to sleep) as well as a few vials of his elixir (better than Sokolov’s, he insisted) in thanks. Corvo couldn’t exactly say no, but the smile on the man’s face really didn’t make him want to.

Lydia at the bar made sure he ate when he came down from putting his gear in his room -- again, not much, but it was good -- and he dropped the journal off with Martin, who made good on his earlier offer and bought him a glass of good whiskey. He lingered long enough to share drinks with the former Overseer (who had almost as sharp a tongue as Corvo himself), before heading back up to get some rest.

With any luck it would be easy to decipher the journal, and he would wake up able to go save Emily, bring her home-- not home, not really, but...she’d be safe.

She’d be safe, and that would mean more to him than he could possibly say aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This damn game is so much denser than 2? It's taking me twice as long to get through it even with streamlining things!! Wow!!! But still, though, I'mma do it. Watch me.
> 
> The Void was fun and the Outsider is...weird to write like this? Before he softened up a bit to Corvo, he's...wow. Weird.
> 
> Also -- he picked up Devouring Swarm with this rune, but I decided to go with a pet headcanon of mine and, since the canon ability is really only useful in High Chaos, I altered it for Low Chaos. He can still summon rats! Just...helpful little buddies like Billie's in DotO rather than homicidal rage-rodents. 
> 
> (Also goddamnit why do I like Teague Martin so much, make him go away.)


	3. emily

It was two days they waited, while Martin worked on the journal. They were nowhere near the longest day’s of Corvo’s life, but they were certainly among the longer. Every day they took to find her was another day something could happen -- and maybe he was being paranoid, but it was justified, and he was afraid. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Emily.

At the very least, the people at the Hound’s Pit were...decent people. Not counting Havelock and Pendleton -- who tended to be too focused on the mission to manage anything other than basic civility -- and Martin, who had all but vanished while he deciphered Campbell’s notes, the staff were all kind to Corvo. Lydia kept trying to make sure he ate -- she could be pretty forceful, but he really didn’t have that much of an appetite -- and Callista and the other girl, Cecelia, always had a smile for him when he passed. Pendleton’s servant Wallace, who apparently lingered about to help with the bar and to cook, tended to forget Corvo was there, but when he remembered he was always very friendly. Samuel, who stayed outside in a little makeshift lean-to, would always greet him warmly as well, and Piero had apparently decided Corvo’s praise made him amenable to getting nattered at constantly about this or that experiment -- he wasn’t entirely wrong, even if it could get tiresome; he was at least a lot less of a task to deal with than Sokolov.

It was odd, after six months in prison, to feel welcome somewhere again, even if it was an incredibly trying situation. At least the people here made it a little better.

It was the afternoon of the third day when Corvo trailed outside, having noticed that the bar itself was oddly empty. A look around -- pointedly avoiding the workshop and Piero’s clumsy attempts to flirt with Callista -- found Havelock and Pendleton lingering around the steps leading to the sewer entrance, and they looked up to greet him when he approached. “Good afternoon, Corvo,” Havelock said, and glanced back down warily at the sewers.

“Havelock,” Corvo replied with a nod, moving to stare curiously down at where they were looking. “Something wrong down there?”

“Unfortunately,” the admiral admitted. “”I hate to start your day with such a strange matter, but the servants all heard something last night moving through the storm drains under the building. This close to the Flooded District, it’s probably a Weeper. Poor bastard…”

Corvo grimaced. “Probably,” he admitted, and then caught the look in Havelock’s eyes, sighing. “I’ll give it a look,” he said, before the man could ask, and Havelock looked relieved.

“Thank you, Corvo,” he said.”I just want to be sure it’s not a nosy guardsman or something.” He took a keyring off his belt and tossed it to Corvo, who caught it. “Key to the drains. I’d send a servant down, but...” He shook his head, and Corvo got the impression he didn’t think too highly of them.

“I won’t be long,” Corvo told him, and headed down the steps, unlocking the hatch that led into the drain and leaping down. Weepers…plague victims too far gone to save, shambling ruins of disease. Their minds gone, all they did was wander around and bleed, infecting others. It was depressing, honestly. Corvo had never seen one, but he’d heard reports, and...well, he was glad it was him down here instead of a servant. (He wondered if the Mark or the magic protected him from the plague. He wasn’t planning on finding out, though.)

Following the grating led him into the sewers proper, and turning a corner made the moans audible. He cringed to hear them, but headed further in. another corner and there they were. A pair of them, staggering aimlessly around, occasionally bending to vomit and moaning all the while. Corvo’s hand twitched towards his blade -- was it better to kill them, put them out of their misery? Who knew if they could be saved? Who knew if anyone could be saved once they were infected? Void knew he didn’t want to touch them.

Wait-- his crossbow, right. He went for that instead, hefting it experimentally and reaching for the pouch where he kept the bolts. His fingers brushed an oddly thick one first, and he pulled it out. Piero’s sleeping darts, the ones he’d given him a few days earlier. Well, if anything was a sign, this was, he decided, and used a pair of them to take the Weepers down silently. He was impressed -- they dropped in moments. Whatever concoction was in them was clearly effective. He’d have to keep that in mind and get some more.

Picking his way over to them, he grabbed one by the jacket and dragged them into an alcove, and then the other. It was hardly comfortable, but at least they’d be out of the way for a while, and maybe wander away when they woke. As he straightened, unconsciously wiping his hands on his coat, his Mark twinged. Startled, he glanced down at it. It looked the same, but -- it was definitely hurting a little, as if trying to tell him something. He frowned, turning his hand over, and a gasp of surprise escaped him when the Heart -- _her_ heart -- appeared in his hand in a softer version of the Outsider’s ripple. It was beating quickly, and a scan around the room directed him to a corner nearby, a crate dragged in the way to block it from view.

He carefully moved over there, peering over the crate, and was surprised to see a tiny, half-finished shrine -- not even something he’d call a shrine, really, just a few bits of waterlogged wood tied together with packing twine and propped beside a lantern with broken glass panes. The only reason he could tell it was more than junk was the rune propped against it, the bone damp and the metal ends a bit rusty. “Huh,” he said aloud. A weeper or plague victim must have set it up in the hopes the Outsider would save them. Clearly, no luck was had, because it looked long abandoned.

He knelt to it, studying it curiously before digging a matchbook out of his coat -- surprised but pleased it was still there -- and lighting the lantern on a whim. The half-melted candle burned yellow, not violet, but the thought was still there, he supposed. The candlelight in the dim sewers illuminated a hole in the crate and something within, and he reached to fish it out before going for the rune. It was a few little charms made of whalebone and metal, odd looking runes carved on them. Bonecharms -- these he knew pretty well. Sailors and merchantmen wore them, carried them with them on voyages. Kept them for luck. The Abbey condemned them, of course, but Corvo had always seen these as harmless superstition. He shrugged and pocketed them, figuring he could use the luck they brought, and turned to grab the rune.

He was expecting the Void to rush in around him like high tide this time, and he was expecting the Outsider, but he certainly wasn’t expecting the being to look as he did, his expression almost genuinely confused.

“You let him live,” he said almost immediately, launching into speech before Corvo could get his bearings. “You didn’t kill Campbell. All he’d done, and you spared his life.” He shook his head, and Corvo swore he almost sounded amazed. “Now you really _do_ interest me, Corvo.”

“I didn’t before?” Corvo said, throwing caution to the wind. “But yes, Outsider. I didn’t kill him. I did something he deserved far more -- he’ll have to lie the rest of his life knowing his crimes are what ruined him, and that brand on his face will make damn sure he’ll be miserable the whole time.”

The Outsider laughed, but there was an odd ring to it, and he crouched to Corvo’s level -- the first movement Corvo had ever seen him make. “Your circumstances interested me,” he corrected. “And what you might do. But know I know what you _will_ do -- and that, despite all my years, is something I never expected.”

“You expected me to kill him?” Corvo asked, and then something occurred to him -- that’s likely what the Outsider _always_ expected. With the magic he gave, it would have been so _easy_. No one had seen him go in, and no one would have seen him come out. If he’d murdered Campbell, no one would have known who or how. “If you don’t want people to use your powers like that, why do you give them away?” If he expected people to automatically use them to kill, and clearly didn’t seem to like that, it made no sense to why he would keep marking people.

The Outsider’s eyes narrowed and he stood sharply, and Corvo knew he’d struck a nerve. “It’s not my fault they can’t bother to stay interesting,” he snapped. “That’s on them. And it’s on _you_ , Corvo. Don’t disappoint me.”

The world came back suddenly, more violently than last time, and Corvo stood with the distinct impression that the Outsider had done the equivalent of slamming the door in his face. He didn’t feel any different this time, either. That was mildly concerning, but as long as the Outsider hadn’t actually _taken_ anything from him, he supposed he could live with the fact that he’d pissed the being off enough that he’d left without giving him anything.

The trek back through the drain and out of the hatch took half the time now that he didn’t need to walk cautiously, and he almost lost his footing on the edge when someone spoke above him. It was Cecelia, the errand girl people seemed to forget about most times. “You really went down there?” She asked, awed. “I thought I heard a Weeper last night, but-- I can’t believe it. You’ve got to be the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t know about that,” Corvo said with a quiet smile. “But thanks.”

Cecelia returned the smile, and then shook her head and gestured at the pub. “Martin’s downstairs again,” she said. “He’s with the Admiral -- they want to talk to you.”

They’d found Emily. “I’ll head there now,” he said, and climbed the steps to pass her, nodding at her as he did. She didn’t seem to enjoy being overlooked so often, so he felt the need to acknowledge her when he could.

Martin and Havelock were talking in low voices in the bar when he got there, and both of them looked up as one when Corvo entered. “Hello again, Corvo,” Martin said, lifting a hand. He looked exhausted, but his eyes and smile held the grim determination of someone who’d found exactly what he was looking for. “I’ve done it. I know -- well, _we_ know -- where Emily Kaldwin is being held.”

“Where?” Corvo asked, and he was glad to hear his voice was still even, even if it was terse. The faster he knew, the faster he could go get her.

“The Golden Cat, of all places,” Martin said, somewhat reluctantly, seeming to expect the hiss of anger from Corvo that followed. “They call it a bathhouse for aristocrats, but we all know what really goes on behind closed doors.”

Havelock sighed. “There’s a complication, though. Our Lord Pendleton’s own family stands in our way -- the twins, Morgan and Custis. Not only are they the ones who have Emily, but they have the controlling parliamentary votes we desperately need.” Havelock walked away at that to refill his beer glass, and Martin sighed.

“Yes, well. To put it bluntly, the Pendletons have to die,” he said. “Or, well-- whatever you see fit to do, Corvo, seeing how you handled Campbell. But more importantly, and I’m sure you know this better than we do, Emily needs to be brought back here safely.” The look in his eyes made Corvo half-sure the man knew about his connection to Emily, but -- to his gratitude -- the former Overseer said nothing. “Pendleton -- well, _Treavor_ \-- is waiting for you outside. He asked to brief you personally, which doesn’t really surprise me.”

Corvo nodded, going upstairs to get the rest of his gear and heading outside to Samuel’s skiff, where Pendleton waited. The man looked even more stressed than usual, not even bothering to hide the bottle in his hand. “Corvo,” he greeted. “I asked to speak with you myself about-- about all this. After all, we _are_ sending you to kill my older brothers.” He shifted awkwardly. “They’re horrible men, I-I know you’re aware of that, and on top of that they’re working closely with the Lord Regent.” He paused to take a drink. “Right now, most of what they’re doing is getting richer by cheating others out of their wealth. That is to say-- not every noble family evicted for having the plague actually _has_ the plague, if you know what I mean.” Corvo did, and he hated them all the more for it. “They’ll be at the Golden Cat tonight for their usual...revels, and they’ll be protected by the City Watch. It’ll be dangerous, but-- oh, just go,” he added, taking another drink. “Before I change my mind.”

Corvo nodded, stopping only to get some more of those sleeping darts from Piero before heading down to the pier to meet Samuel. This would be dangerous, for sure, but if it was for Emily, he’d gladly face down the entire Watch if he had to. For Emily, he’d do _anything_.

* * *

The Golden Cat was, ironically, almost right beside the High Overseer’s office in the Distillery District. Corvo had a feeling there was something to be said about the Abbey itself in that, but that wasn’t worth thinking about. Either way, Samuel dropped him off at the same spot he had before, warning him about a newly erected watchtower he’d heard about -- apparently what had happened to Campbell had put the Regent on alert.

That wasn’t too much of a problem, Corvo decided, and blinked up onto the roofs once he was out of sight of Samuel. Going through the rooftops, he could probably make it to the Cat easily enough. Getting in was another story, but he could handle that when he got to it. He just had to remember not to get ahead of himself worrying about Emily.

He blinked to another roof and down to a balcony, and froze when he heard someone call up to him. “Hey!” He looked down to see a scruffy, broad-shouldered man -- not a guard -- staring up at him with a mix of relief and fright. “S’you! The masked bloke! Jus’ the guy I been lookin’ for,” he said, and Corvo relaxed slightly. He didn’t seem to be antagonistic...but why was he looking for him? “Slackjaw wants t’see you. C’mon down ‘ere.”

Slackjaw? The _head_ of the Bottle Street gang? Now that was interesting. He must have heard from the boys he’d chased away from Granny the other night about the masked man, and put two and two together when Campbell was taken down that same night. He’d heard rumors, and figured the man must be smarter than most assumed. He was basically single-handedly running a black market operation for elixir, after all. He nodded wordlessly, leaping down off the balcony to meet the thug -- taking some pleasure in the fact that he was almost a foot taller than him, making the man cringe -- and gestured for him to lead the way.

If anyone knew how to get into the Cat, it was Slackjaw -- and he would gladly trade a favor for a way to Emily.

The thug led him down the alley to a steel door, the old sign above it indicating that it was the old whiskey distillery -- the Bottle Street headquarters. Corvo knew that much from being Lord Protector. The thugs that lingered about stared at him with undisguised wariness and a certain level of awe -- anyone Slackjaw wanted to meet was probably a force to be reckoned with, after all.

The courtyard was surprisingly well-kept, save for the graffiti and broken glass every so often, and the thug directed him into the distillery proper, telling him Slackjaw’s office was in the back. It wasn’t hard to find -- Corvo had poked around warehouses like this before -- and Slackjaw was indeed waiting for him. The office was surprisingly...businesslike, with some posters and trophy animal heads put up on display, including Slackjaw’s own wanted poster. The man himself was standing and looking through some papers, and looked up when Corvo entered, grinning around his cigar.

He was pretty impressive, Corvo had to admit -- almost as tall as him, with thick muttonchops and a slightly off-kilter jaw. He stepped back, openly appraising Corvo, before nodding. “My men were right,” He said, still grinning. “You do look like a man out for murder.”

“Maybe,” Corvo said, glad his voice was distorted by the mask. “Or maybe they were too drunk to think straight.”

Slackjaw laughed, shaking his head. “Most of ‘em are, most days,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t stop them from being good at their jobs, though. Well, sometimes.” He leaned forward. “Listen. Way I figure it, the only people ‘round here worth killing are those two Pendletons over at the Golden Cat. I’m right, ain’t I?”

“You might be,” Corvo allowed, but he was amused. The man really wasn’t stupid.

Slackjaw grinned wider. “See? Slackjaw here knows things. Those two are twins -- rich, mean, an’ _weird_. Worse than most of their ilk. They been layin’ low there awhile, not sure why. You, maybe?” He barked out a laugh. “Lot of security there tonight, though -- special guests and the like. You gonna walk in there dressed like that, kill the Pendleton brothers?”

“I was thinking of disguising myself as a courtesan, actually,” Corvo said dryly, and was somewhat gratified to see Slackjaw have to take a moment before he broke into laughter again.

“You -- I like you,” he told him. “Point is, maybe I got a better way to take care of ‘em than that. Just gotta do somethin’ for me, first. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” Corvo agreed. “So what is it?”

Slackjaw was pleased, clearly, but then he frowned. “Someone -- don’t know who -- is killing my men, takin’ my territory, stealing my goods. Might be a fellow name of Galvani. I sent my best man to investigate, but he went missing, and, well...now I need someone to find what happened to him.” He waited for Corvo to nod, and then grinned. “Go to this Galvani’s place -- lives right nearby off Clavering. You do that for me and I’ll get you into the Cat.”

“Sounds good to me,” Corvo said. “Won’t take me long.” He left before Slackjaw could say any more, leaving the distillery grounds before blinking up to a rooftop.

Galvani’s office wasn’t that hard to find -- once he had a view of Clavering Boulevard itself, he spotted a sign that advertised the man’s work as a doctor. Hm. in any case, that was the house he was after, and he blinked across the street (well, onto a lamp post and then across the street) to climb in the place through a second story balcony. There were guards in the building, just a few, and using that strange second sight he was able to avoid them all, heading up to the top floor of the building. His lab was there, with two guards inside, but -- like most of them he’d seen -- they were too engrossed in their conversation as he crept up nearby and put sleeping darts in their sides. They both fell like dominoes, and Corvo dragged them into the washroom, locking the door before turning back to the object of their interest -- a corpse. Probably Slackjaw’s man, he decided, and moved to examine it.

The man was holding an audiograph sheet, punched in with something recorded already, and Corvo took it, using a key on a nearby table to unlock the third-floor balcony and blink from it back across the boulevard. He couldn’t bring a body back, but the audiograph was good enough.

Slackjaw was still waiting in his office when he got back, and grinned widely upon seeing Corvo. He handed over the audiograph, and Slackjaw took it immediately -- Corvo followed him into the control room for the distillery, where the other man plugged it into an audiograph player sitting on one of the tables. The man’s message -- well,what there was of it before he was cut off -- seemed to confirm Slackjaw’s suspicion about someone wanting to take over, and the disbelief the dead man expressed made Corvo wonder. Hadn’t that old woman...hm.

“Ah, so he’s dead,” Slackjaw said, sounding genuinely regretful. “Too bad. He was one of my best men. Still, my masked friend, you and me had a deal, and Slackjaw never goes back on his word.” He rummaged in a pocket and tossed Corvo a key. “This here’s for the Captain’s Chair, a hotel. Been abandoned since the plague got into this part of town. You take the stairs to the top, and you can use the roof to get right into the brothel.”

“Thanks,” Corvo said, pocketing the key.

Slackjaw just grinned again. “See that? Slackjaw keeps a bargain just as good as the men what run this city. You remember that.” Corvo paused -- did he know who he was? Or suspect? Maybe, but so long as he didn’t say anything, t didn’t matter. “Now, I think we can help each other out again.”

“Do you?” Corvo asked, interested. “Tell me more.”

“I could get rid of the Pendletons for you,” he said smugly. “Quiet-like and without killing ‘em. Seems you’d like that, given how you handled the High Overseer. But you gotta do something for me in return.”

Corvo raised an eyebrow. So he _did_ know Corvo was the one behind that. And...he wasn’t wrong. If there was a way to punish them for all their crimes without having to cut their throats, then-- well, why not? Besides, after what the Outsider had said and implied earlier that afternoon...Corvo was even less inclined to murder his way through the conspirators, even if that part was just out of pettiness rather than not wanting to disappoint the being. Show _him_ who was interesting…

“Tell me what you have in mind,” he said, crossing his arms.

Slackjaw, again, looked pleased, like a stray cat with a whole cage full of fat canaries in his sights. “The Cat’s having a big re-opening tonight. Lotta monied clients -- including an arts dealer, name of Bunting. He’s got some _particular tastes_ , or so I’ve been told, and he’s got some pretty fancy stuff locked away in his place. Now, the only thing preventing me from nabbing all that loot is the combination to his safe. Of course, the Pendletons have been camped out there for months, too, not sure why. So you know that means a lot of the soldier types. Point is, bring me that combination, and I take care of the twins. You ain’t never even gotta touch ‘em. And i promise, I won’t kill ‘em -- and no one’ll ever see them again.”

Stealing a safe combination....well. If he did that, he’d be enabling a robbery, but-- honestly? He didn’t care. He might have once, but it wasn’t really that big of a deal in comparison to anything else. And what he was getting out of it was worth the price. “Fine,” he said. “You have a deal.”

“Good to hear,” Slackjaw said cheerily. “Now, off you get.”

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to get into the Golden Cat from the hotel’s roof, and Corvo found himself overlooking the second floor, in the stairwell. Down a floor was the madam’s office, and across the way was the door that led into the Cat proper. The door to the office was open and it was empty, allowing him to pick through the papers on the desk and find the madam’s ledger. He took note of where Bunting was and kept looking, finding a keyring that he pocketed and a note beside it -- about Emily.

He grabbed the note and skimmed it, noting what it said before crumpling it. Near the VIP entrance...and she doesn’t even have a damned room to herself. He couldn’t imagine. Void, he just hoped she was alright… An idea came to him and he knelt, feeling the magic in his mark and silently calling for-- ah. A rat came skittering in from a broken vent, looking up at him curiously, and he smiled faintly. Good, that worked. He hadn’t meant to do it the first time, after all. Glad to know he knew what to do. “Listen,” he told the rat. “There’s a little girl on the third floor somewhere. She’ll be dressed in white. Find her for me, and come back and tell me if she’s alright.”

_Small one colored like snow,_ the rat repeated. _Highest place in building. See if she smells of blood or hurt, see if she doesn’t. Tell you. Will do that for friend, will find her and find you._

“Good,” Corvo said. “Thank you.” The rat disappeared into the vents again, and Corvo slipped out of the room, going back up to the area that overlooked the second floor and using one of the lamps to blink across, sliding into an opening in the wall. The area he was in was sectioned off, and he crossed it in a crouch to nudge the door open and use his second sight to note where the guards were, checking the signs over the rooms until he found the one he wanted. Bunting was supposedly in the Silver Room -- Corvo knew from experience that the names were usually fairly non-indicative of what went on in them, so he had no idea what to expect. That was...both a relief and not much of one, given what he knew went on in brothels. At least he knew he should expect the unexpected?

Void, he hadn’t been in a place like this since his youth in Karnaca. And now here he was, and he was the furthest thing from a patron. It was a strange thought. Even stranger to think about those times now -- it felt like another life entirely. He shook his head to derail that train of thought, and slipped through the door, creeping past a sleeping guard and a courtesan before slipping into the Silver Room and locking the door behind him. A wave of dizziness hit him suddenly, forcing him to turn the sight off, and he leaned against the wall. Right, so, he shouldn’t be using his magic all that much. He had to wonder if an elixir would help, and pulled one out only to realize that he only had Piero’s -- and he’d never tried one before. He frowned and shrugged, uncorking the vial and drinking it. He was surprised when his headache cleared almost immediately-- well, apparently the other elixir did do _something_ useful. Good to know. Then again, Piero was a smart man. He shouldn’t have doubted him.

Corvo turned, then, to investigate the room, and had to stifle a startled snort. Not much was in here save for what was obviously a jury-rigged electric chair, with Bunting sitting strapped into it. The man was blindfolded, and he perked up upon hearing Corvo’s footsteps. “Finally!” He said, sounding relieved. “I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. Your footsteps are a little loud today -- did you gain a little weight, honey?”

Oh, Void, the man thought he was -- well, he had joked about pretending to be a courtesan...he remained quiet, though, waiting for the man to continue. “Now just like last time, remember?” Bunting said. “Little at a time, and only until I give you the safe word. It’s _retribution_ , if you forgot.”

Corvo blinked. He actually wanted to be...well. To each his own, he decided, and -- not a little uncomfortable with the concept -- reached out to tug the lever. The machine crackled to life, and Bunting yelped, and then moaned a bit. “Oooh, that’s good, I deserved that,” he said, pleased, and it took a monumental effort for Corvo not to gag. For the love of-- this was not what he’d had in mind. Ugh.

He reluctantly pulled the switch a couple more times, awkwardly watching the man and praying that he didn’t make it worse. After twice more, Bunting sputtered out the safe word, and Corvo -- contemplating the fact that this was how he’d been tortured for six months -- sighed and pulled the lever again. Thankfully for the both of them, it didn’t take long for Bunting to give in and spill everything, including the safe combination. 576, it was, and Corvo took note of that and patted Bunting’s head as he left, leaving him strapped there helplessly.

That hadn’t been what he’d wanted to do in the least, and his skin crawled at the idea, but at least it had gotten him what he needed. Now he just needed to find Emily.

Creeping back out of the Silver Room, he slipped back through the second floor and up the back stairwell to the third. The stairwell let out near the courtesans’ dormitories, and the rat from earlier skittered up to him as soon as he got there. _Girl is not hurt,_ it told him. _Girl is this way! Will show friend._ Corvo nodded and followed quietly after the rat to one of the dormitory rooms -- he assumed Emily had been moved to one after her escape attempt.

He swallowed, nodding at the rat once it had stopped at a door, and it vanished off into shadows. Another deep breath, and he unlocked the door, pushing it open gently.

And there she was. The table in the room was overturned, making a small alcove, and she was tucked behind it, a few pieces of paper on tacked on the walls -- at least she was still drawing. He knew how much she loved that, and it was good she’d managed to scrounge pencils from somewhere. She froze when the door opened, peering over the table with narrowed, cautious eyes. “Who are you? Why are you wearing that mask?”

He took the mask off almost immediately, then -- he’d forgotten he was wearing it, and the thought that Emily didn’t recognize him beneath it… “Emily, it’s me,” he said softly, and his heart warmed at her eyes lighting up.

“Corvo--? Corvo, it’s you!” She gasped, tearing over to him and tackling him in a hug. He embraced her tightly, trying not to cry -- though she did, she was crying and that made it even harder. “I knew you were alive! I knew it! You were just wearing a mask to sneak around!” She was grinning from ear to ear when she leaned back, even if she was still crying. “Th-they-- they told me you were--” She stammered. “Head chopped off-- i-in prison, dead, like-- like Mother--” Her voice broke and she buried her face back in his chest.

“Shhh,” Corvo murmured, stroking her hair. “I’m alright, I promise. I’m here. I’m sorry I made you wait.” Void, it was good to see her. It was-- she was alive, she was alright, she was _here_...he’d found her. He hadn’t failed her.

Emily managed to calm herself, wiping her face and straightening. “We gotta get out of here, now, Corvo,” she told him. “I have a plan, though! I almost got away twice!” She grinned when Corvo ruffled her hair proudly. “There’s a door where people come in and out, for _special_ people, and it’s a way out! I can show you where it is, and if anyone tries to stop us, you can fight them. You’re good at that, I know.”

Corvo chuckled, putting his mask back on as he followed Emily down the hall and all the way to the very bottom of the stairs. A door there led out into an enclosed alley, and Emily bounced on her heels as Corvo produced the keyring and unlocked it. “You came by boat, didn’t you?” She asked. “Because this place is on the river. Don’t worry about me! I can sneak like you, and I’ll go wait by the boat, okay? I know where the boats dock.”

“Alright, Emily,” Corvo said, removing his mask briefly to kiss her forehead. “Be quick. The boatman’s name is Samuel. He’s waiting for us -- I have one more thing to do, and I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay!” Emily said, giving him a quick hug has he put his mask back on. “I’ll see you there.” She darted out the door and down an alley, and he watched her go. He was worried, but it wasn’t that far from where Samuel was waiting, and he knew Emily was good at sneaking; he’d taught her a thing or two in all their games of hide and seek. That had been half the point of them, anyway. He’d always wanted her to be safe, and teaching her to be quiet and clever was a good way to start. He had faith in her, and he needed to drop the combination with Slackjaw -- and there was no way he was letting Emily meet _him_.

He blinked across the rooftops, avoiding the normal entrance into the distillery and instead dropping down into the open courtyard from the roof. He wasn’t noticed, thankfully, and there were a few thugs who let out startled yelps as he passed them. Slackjaw was leaning against the front entrance to the distillery when he got there, and he grinned at Corvo. “Got the combination, then?” He asked.

“I did,” Corvo replied. “It’s 576. Go on and do what you want with it.”

Slackjaw grinned wider. “My thanks,” he said. “Outsider’s balls, I’ve been after this combination for _months_. You ever want steady work, come see me. Slackjaw knows a good man when he sees one.” The two of them shared a quiet laugh, and Slackjaw stood. “You’re wondering what I’m gonna do to the Pendletons, ain’tcha? Well -- them Pendletons got these rock mines, have hundreds of souls down there workin’ half a mile deep. So I’m gonna shave their heads, cut out their tongues, and put ‘em in one of their own damned mines. Then they’re gonna see life from a different angle.”

“Can’t think of two better men for that to happen to,” Corvo said coldly. Just what he’d done to Campbell -- make them _live_. Make them suffer the rest of their lives knowing exactly why they were suffering. It was a good fate, a fitting one.

“Thought you’d see it that way,” Slackjaw said. “Now get. You have other business to attend to, Slackjaw knows. Go on, and don’t forget what I did for you, eh?”

“I won’t,” Corvo said, and headed out of the distillery, blinking through the district in a hurry to get to where Samuel and Emily waited. It wasn’t far, and he nearly stumbled twice as he hit the ground near the dock area in his haste. He shook himself off and made himself walk the rest of the way.

Emily was there, and she hopped out of the boat to hug him when he arrived. He returned the gesture, and took off his mask to smile tiredly at Samuel, who nodded. “Samuel’s nice,” Emily said, sounding happy. “He’s going to show me how to steer the boat!”

“That’s nice,” he said, and meant it. “Now let’s head back, alright? It’s late.” It was -- the sun had set not long after he’d arrived in the district, and he couldn’t imagine it wasn’t past midnight by now. Emily nodded, and the two of them got in the boat, Emily clambering into Corvo’s lap immediately. Samuel chuckled and steered them away from the dock, heading back down the river to the Hound’s Pit.

* * *

Emily was the first out of the boat when they got there, eyes wide in curious wonder as she looked around the grounds of the pub. Corvo had to smile, tiredly, as he joined her -- she’d make the best of this, he knew. She was that kind of girl. He offered her his hand as she looked up at him, and she took it with a smile.

Callista met them at the bottom of the steps, smiling nervously at them before bowing at Emily. “Lady Emily. I’m-- I’m Callista. I’ll be caring for you and schooling you while you’re at the Hound’s Pit.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Emily said politely, bowing and smiling back, and Callista relaxed a little.

“As am I,” Callista said, and then glanced at Corvo. “Would you like to see your room in the tower?” She asked, indicating the old tower that stood next to Piero’s workshop. It was connected to the pub’s attic by a short, rickety bridge, Corvo saw, and appreciated that. It meant he was close by.

“Oh, can I?” Emily asked, and Callista nodded. “I’d like that.” She looked up at Corvo, smiling. “I think I’m going to like it here,” she told him. “I’m going to go with Callista, okay? I’ll see you later, promise.”

“Alright,” Corvo said, letting Emily run off after her new attendant. “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”

Callista and Emily passed Havelock as they left, who bowed to Emily and then approached Corvo. “You never fail to impress, Corvo,” he said. “You’ve once again changed the course of the city forever.” he offered his hand, then, and startled, Corvo took it. It almost seemed like Havelock was warming to him the more they got done, and as odd as it was, it was...reassuring. “And with the Pendletons gone to...well, wherever you put them, our own Lord Pendleton will assume their votes in Parliament. In one night, you’ve done more than most do in a lifetime, Corvo.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Corvo said, slightly embarrassed.

Havelock chuckled. “I would,” he replied. “I need to speak to you at some point, but right now Pendleton wants to see you. So tomorrow, then.” He walked away at that, indicating where Pendleton waited beneath Emily’s little tower, on the bit of the area overlooking the river.

The man was still drinking when Corvo approached, and glanced up at him with a sigh. “Corvo,” he greeted, sounding a little inebriated. “The Loyalist Conspiracy thanks you for your work. I don’t know if I can, though-- my own brothers…” He sighed again. “We never believed that you killed the Empress. It made more sense that the Royal Spymaster -- now the Lord Regent -- was behind it. We spent a lot of money and exposed ourselves to great risk to get you out of prison, but we did it because we believe that you’re the one that can make the difference.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it,” Corvo said wryly, and Pendleton barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he walked away.

Corvo stifled a yawn and shook his head, wandering back to the pub himself. He might actually be able to get a few hours rest tonight, he thought. Knowing Emily was safe and sound -- talking happily to Callista in the bar as he passed -- was a massive weight off his shoulders. Maybe that would help him sleep.

Whatever Havelock wanted him for tomorrow...that was tomorrow. He’ll deal with it then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dragging it out, I know, but it feels like a more reasonable timeline if stuff doesn't happen, yknow, in like the span of four days tops.
> 
> Anyway...Slackjaw! Emily! I love everyone!!!! And I know there's no actual shrine or Outsider conversation in this mission, but I felt like he needed to talk to him at least once a chapter. He still didn't get an ability this time, though, 'cause he pissed Outsider off with his (very justified) question. They'll get along eventually.


	4. the philosopher

The next morning Corvo woke up oddly early, to a weight on his chest. Half asleep, he knew who it was even before his eyes opened halfway to see Emily curled up on top of him. She must have come through the bridge some point during the night...he sighed fondly, brushing some hair out of her face, and stood, gathering her in his arms and heading through the door to her tower.

Callista was there looking through some books and papers, and she looked up at him apologetically when he entered. “I was asleep when she went over there,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to wake either of you, but-- I’m sorry, Corvo.”

“It’s alright,” Corvo reassured her, putting her on one of the beds and tucking her in. “I don’t mind. She’s been through a lot, and I’m a familiar face.” She adored him, he knew that; as much as it was tempered by something bittersweet, he adored her, too. If she needed him to sleep well her first night here, he wouldn’t begrudge her that. “I’ll likely be gone tonight, though, Callista, so…”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t worry,” the woman promised. “She’s a good girl, Corvo. Easy to like.”

“She is,” he said with a soft smile. “I’m glad she’s safe.” He glanced down at her one last time before sighing. “I’d better go. Havelock wanted to see me.”

Callista nodded. “He said something about that, yes,” she agreed. “Should I tell Emily what’s going on when you leave later?”

“Yes,” Corvo said. “She’s clever; if you don’t tell her she’ll find out on her own, and she does deserve to know what’s going on around her.” She was as much a part of this as anyone else, and it was her mother that had-- it was her mother. She had a right to know everything about what was happening. He knew she was smart, smart enough to understand. He didn’t want to start treating her like glass because of this. As much as he wanted to protect her from everything, from the world...she would be empress, soon. He couldn’t afford to coddle her even if he wanted to (and he wanted to). So he’d do what he could and let her judge the rest.

He headed back downstairs after that, where Lydia cornered him with breakfast -- he promised to eat it, though really he knew he’d just end up leaving half -- and waited for Havelock, who came down half an hour later.

“Good morning, Corvo,” he said with a nod, getting his breakfast from Lydia and his usual glass of beer from the tap and sitting across from him.

“Morning,” Corvo responded. “Where are the others?”

Havelock snorted. “Pendleton’s hungover, most likely,” he said with a shrug. “And Martin’s still going over Campbell’s journal. Apparently the amount of blackmail in that journal is astounding.” and that said a lot about both of them, Corvo mused.

“Speaking of Martin,” Havelock added. “He came up with our next move while you were out, and we need to carry it out with all haste. There’s a footnote in Campbell’s journal that tells us that the Lord Regent’s mistress sat for a painting with Sokolov, the painter and Royal Physician. He’ll be able to give us her name.”

Corvo grinned quietly to himself. “So you need me to kidnap Anton Sokolov,” he said.

“Precisely,” Havelock agreed. “Sokolov lives on Kaldwin Bridge about half the time, out over the river. That’s why you need to hurry -- we need to get to him before he leaves. Samuel can get you close to the bridge, but you’ll have to find our man. Bring him back here intact, and it’ll enable us to make our next move.” He leaned back in his seat. “I can’t believe what you’ve done so far. Escaping from Coldridge, taking down the High Overseer, recovering Emily...you really do make this old military man proud.”

Corvo looked startled, and then smiled more genuinely at the other man. “It hasn’t been easy,” he admitted. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” Havelock agreed. “In any case, you have your mission -- it’s early yet, but whenever you’re ready, Samuel’s waiting.”

Corvo nodded, standing and leaving the bar. He didn’t like the idea of taking care of this in broad daylight, but Havelock wasn’t wrong about needing to be quick. If Sokolov left, he’d probably be in Dunwall Tower or somewhere else harder to reach, and that would set them back miles. Well...it would be a challenge, he decided. With any luck, he’d at least be able to come back while the sun was setting, and make their return trip that much less visible.

He did stop by Piero to speak to him, the man clearly both genuinely pleased at Corvo’s praise -- pleased enough to tinker with his crossbow, improving the range and accuracy -- and a bit unhappy with the idea of Sokolov joining them. He reassured Piero that he would only trust him with his equipment, which mollified the philosopher, and he headed up to the tower to briefly inform Callista where he was going, so that Emily wouldn’t worry when she woke and he was gone.

That done, he fetched the rest of his gear and headed down to the docks, Samuel smiling at him. “Hey there, Corvo,” he greeted him. “Ready to head to the bridge?”

“Yes,” he said, stepping into the boat and tugging his hood up, even if he didn’t put his mask on right away. “Faster we get Sokolov, the better.”

* * *

The bridge was closer than the Distillery district, halfway down the Wrenhaven, and Samuel steered them towards the south end. It was pretty impressive, Corvo had to admit. A huge bridge lined with apartments and buildings leaning over the water like a floating city. The problem here, though, was the floodlights. Samuel pointed them out as he pulled into port under the bridge, citing that as the reason he couldn’t get closer than this. Corvo would have to shut down the power to the lights if he wanted the boatman to pick him up where Sokolov’s apartment was on the north end.

“Won’t be the hardest thing I’ve had to do,” Corvo said with a smile, clicking his mask into place. Just meet me there after the lights go out. I’ll see you soon, Samuel. Stay safe.”

“Will do, sir,” Samuel said with a smile. “Yourself, too.”

Corvo nodded and left, climbing the steps up to the top of the bridge and crouching when he reached the top, slipping behind checkpoint walls into an alley and blinking along some balconies to get to the door to the control building. At the top was an electric bridge for supplies, but the gate was closed and the slot for a whale oil tank was empty. Corvo groaned, shaking his head and turning to look around for a dispenser. A glance up showed a few spare ones on a ledge above, and he blinked up to grab one, careful not to drop it as he blinked back down. Whale oil was a bit of a scary thing to handle, he reflected. One wrong move and it could explode -- and Corvo didn’t really want to see the results of that firsthand.

He climbed into the supply tram and tugged the switch after the gate opened, crouching just in case -- and smirking in amusement as the speakers crackled to life, warning of a curfew. No foot traffic on the bridge, mm? Well... _technically_ , he wasn’t on the bridge, he was on the rooftops. He was just breaking rules everywhere, now, wasn’t he?

From there, he dropped to the pavement and looked around, slipping through a metal door out of the south gate area. It seemed to be the only way across now that the guards were preparing for the evening’s curfew (at noon? Burrows really was paranoid). Past that was the residential part of the bridge, and he immediately blinked up onto a balcony when he saw a few guards talking to a nobleman in the courtyard a few feet away.

His mark twinged then, and he called the Heart into his hand -- a rune was nearby, obviously, or a shrine or both. He sighed as he followed it across into an apartment building with unlocked balcony doors and through it to another balcony overlooking an alley. He could tell a shrine was in the room before he even entered, the violet light from the lanterns pouring out of the doorway. He blinked down and hesitated, staring down at the thing in his hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly, wondering if it would speak to him again. Or was her voice only in the Void, and here in this world all he had was the warmth of it and the knowledge that it was hers?

 _‘I am here,’_ it whispered, and his own heart tightened. _‘Why am I so cold? What have they done to me? I hear so much...can you hear them, too? They are burning the whales…’_

Corvo cringed. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I can’t hear them. But I can hear you, _mia stella_. I can hear you, and I’ll make sure they all pay for what they’ve done to you.” The Heart disappeared from his hand, and he took a deep breath, shaking his head. He wanted to hate the Outsider for doing this to her, but...to still be able to hear her voice...perhaps it was selfish, but he couldn’t. And really, that just made him hate himself a little.

Once he regained his equilibrium, he entered the abandoned apartment and slipped over to the shrine, frowning down at the rune sitting on top of the haphazard structure of wood and wire. Where did these people get this stuff? He’d heard rumors about Wyrmwood Way -- the Overseers kept trying to shut the place down to no avail -- but...was it really this prolific? He was starting to think he needed to get out of the Tower more often, when this was over. He felt like he’d been too complacent. When he was young, he’d spent his days on the streets of Karnaca. He’d known them all by heart, known every gang and bar and black market shop and every place to get information. Dunwall, though...clearly, he needed to rethink just what being Lord Protector meant.

Swearing internally at the second time in as many minutes he’d gotten lost in his own thoughts, he reached out and -- a little irritably -- put his hand on the rune.

By now he was used to the way the world rippled into the Void like throwing a rock into water, and he expected the Outsider to appear as well. Though the fact that the being seemed to be sulking, still, was...well, it made Corvo laugh, despite his lingering frustration.

 _“What?”_ The Outsider snapped. “What seems to be so _funny_ , Corvo? Are you that confident, now that you've once again proven you're not as bloodthirsty as the rest of the rabble?”

Corvo snorted. “No,” he said truthfully. “Just because I've found other ways to deal with Campbell and the twins doesn't mean I'll be able to do the same tomorrow. It doesn't mean I'll be able to hang on to my rationality when I face Burrows, or if I ever meet the assassin who murdered Jessamine. I'm not arrogant enough to think I'll be able to keep being merciful forever.”

The Outsider blinked, caught off guard by Corvo’s candor. “Then why are you laughing?”

“Because you're acting like a bratty teenager,” Corvo told him dryly. “It's hard to be afraid of you when you're still pouting about what I said to you yesterday.”

“ _Excuse_ me?!” The Outsider sputtered, black eyes wide. “Have you forgotten who you're talking to, Corvo Attano?!”

Corvo had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “No, I haven't. You're the Outsider, the being the Abbey warns against and the source of most magic. But you're also acting like a spoiled child who's been scolded for the first time, and it's hard to be afraid of that when I've helped raise a ten year old girl.” He tilted his head. “Or would you rather I cower in terror and awe? Worship you slavishly? Would that be more interesting?”

“No!” The being blurted out, before catching himself and looking mildly surprised at his outburst. “That is... when you put it that way, Corvo... I don't-- you’re--”

“I thought so,” Corvo admitted. “You really do remind me of a child, you know. A very bored, lonely child. You don't frighten me any longer, Outsider, and I half expect that's what you've been waiting for.” He shrugged. “Get angry again if you like, but that's how it is.”

The Outsider stared at him for a long, silent moment, and Corvo stared back. He hadn't been lying -- the more he interacted with the Outsider, the more he came to realize that he wasn't dealing with a terrifying and unknowable deity of the Void, he was dealing with a child. A petulant, arrogant child who was bored out of his mind and who felt entitled to the attention of his Marked, though at the same time treated them like actors in an increasingly predictable play. A child who had no idea what to do when something or someone went off script, even if he'd wanted it to happen. That didn't necessarily make Corvo warm up to him any, but...he could deal with a child.

“Is...that what you think, then?” The Outsider said after a moment, and he sounded surprisingly less annoyed than he’d been, more...not subdued, but not quite back to his emotionless monotone, either. “I’ll admit, it’s the first time I’ve been described in that manner. And…I’ll also admit that I vastly prefer your-- sincerity, rude as it is, to the sort of reactions I’ve always dealt with.” He smiled thinly. “You’re interesting just as you are, Corvo.”

“...Thank you,” Corvo said after a moment, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He hadn’t expected that -- maybe, at least, that meant the Outsider could also be more reasonable than he’d thought. That was good to know.

The Outsider shifted slightly, and it was then that Corvo realized the being was standing instead of floating, this time. “So you’re off to meet Anton Sokolov, are you?” He asked, and his smile went cold. “He’s made quite the study of my runes, did you know? But he isn’t special like you are. He wasn’t chosen, and he doesn’t wear my mark, so he can’t unlock their secrets.” he snorted, and Corvo got the impression that the Outsider did _not_ like the Tyvian. “He tries, though. He believes there are specific words and acts that can compel me to appear before him, and he’s tried them all. He’s searched old temples in Pandyssia and ruined basements in the Flooded District, performed disgusting rituals beneath the old Abbey…” He laughed, shaking his head, and that impression solidified. “If he really wants to meet me, though, he could stand being a little more _interesting_.”

“That isn’t interesting to you, but I am?” Corvo asked. “I’ll never understand your taste, I think.” Someone like Anton Sokolov being less interesting than Corvo himself? That was certainly odd to consider. “But I’ll take it as a compliment.”

The Outsider snorted. “You should,” he said dryly. “In any case, you’d best hurry. Anton is a fickle creature, and you may not have time.” He paused, though, apparently not quite ready to dismiss Corvo just yet. “The girl you refer to...little Emily Kaldwin, correct?”

“Yes,” Corvo replied, suddenly wary. “Why?”

“No reason,” the Outsider told him, waving it off. “Just curious. Go on, now, Corvo, finish your mission. You have someone waiting for you, after all.”

The world returned then, leaving Corvo a bit concerned -- but with the feeling that he could at least trust the Outsider not to harm Emily. He took a deep breath, glancing out the balcony at the afternoon sun (was it really already past noon? He’d left the pub at nine or ten) before turning to leave -- and freezing. The door to the stairwell was swinging open, and a man -- scruffy, smelling of piss and rot, and with eyes glazed with madness -- was entering, muttering to himself. Shit, he hadn’t considered the shrines might still be used by others--!

He stepped back, eyes wide beneath the mask, and lifted his hand as the man entered...and his mark stung slightly, and then the world stopped. His vision faded to grey, and the man froze in place. The sounds of the world, too, faded, as if everything had simply...paused. Corvo’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, taking off at a run out of the apartment and blinking across to the roof opposite before color rushed back in and things started moving again.

“What the fuck,” he swore quietly, dropping to his hands and knees on the rooftop and panting heavily. “What the _fuck_ was that?” That was something entirely different from his blinking or the sight, or even speaking to rats. He’d just _stopped time_. Not forever, just for a few seconds, but still. Still. That was incredible. That was-- he couldn’t find words in either language he knew. His heart was pounding, and his hand shook as he fumbled for a vial of Piero’s solution to drink it down. His dizziness faded a little at that and his adrenaline faded, and he pulled himself back up to his feet. He’d have to get used to that eventually, or use it sparingly. But-- Void, that was the strangest, most amazing thing--

He forced himself to take a deep breath, reassessing where he was. The halfway point of the bridge was visible from the highest point of the apartments he was on, and it wasn’t that far away. Good. He could take care of the floodlights first, then.

He got to the edge of the apartments, a guard station separating him from the smaller drawbridge that led to the north section, and stopped. That was an arc pylon down there, he noticed. He’d heard about them -- another one of Sokolov’s inventions. It sparked and buzzed menacingly, and he knew if he got too near it, it would be just like a wall of light. Nothing good.

Carefully, he aimed a blink towards the top of the guard station when no one was looking -- the Watchmen distracted by a small group of gang members spying on them -- and landed on the station, blinking again to run up the metal suspension bars and scramble into the metal structure of the drawbridge that marked the halfway point of the bridge. The ‘corridors’ of metal were wide enough for construction workers and empty, and he picked his way through them, grateful at least that he was agile enough to still do this sort of thing. A switch in a control room raised a metal bridge and he crossed it, finding the two whale oil plugs that powered the spotlights in the steel tower beyond. Smirking to himself, he unplugged each one and moved to the side, dropping them into the river and watching them land with a splash.

Satisfied that they wouldn’t be replacing them any time tonight, he made his way through to the other side of the drawbridge and slid down the north end’s suspension bars, blinking over the head of a guard and slipping into the bridge’s north side. It was more cramped than the south end, seemingly for less affluent people, and Corvo wondered why Sokolov chose here of all places. Then again, the man was deeply eccentric. Probably thought it suited his work better or something like that.

Letting out a bemused sigh, he made his way silently through empty streets and alleys, hoping to avoid using more of his magic tonight. He didn’t want to start becoming over-reliant on Piero’s elixir, even when it wasn’t necessarily harmful or hard to get. He only had two more vials on him at the moment, anyway. At least drinking them was about the same as one of Sokolov’s, he decided. Either way, it was something to prevent the plague. And Piero’s helped with the exhaustion magic use caused, for some reason.

Maybe it was more that he didn’t want to become over-reliant on the _magic_ , though. He was who he was even without it. He’d made it as far has he had without it in the first place. It wouldn’t do to start using it enough to make him useless without.

Crossing through to a smaller substation, he frowned to see that the wall of light blocking his way towards Sokolov’s apartment had a metal bar above it with wicked-looking spikes. Ostensibly for birds, perhaps, but it wouldn’t let him blink across. Rolling his eyes, he took up a perch on top of an empty control booth and methodically dropped all the guards in the area -- there were only five or six, thankfully, and he still had plenty of sleep darts left afterwards. After one more visual sweep to make sure they were all down, he blinked to the ground and walked over to the whale oil tank that powered the wall and pulled the tank out, tossing that over the side of the bridge, too.

After the substation was finally where the apartment was, he thought -- or he hoped. Each time he’d thought he was close, there was another section to pass through. The bridge was a damn sight longer than he’d thought. At this point, he gave into temptation, and blinked up to a roof. The sky was starting to dim a bit, revealing how long it had taken him to make it all this way, and by now, he wanted to get back to the pub already.

There were surprisingly few guards on the street, so he made his way past them on the roofs, jumping across narrower gaps that he didn’t have to blink across. Sokolov’s apartment was easy to spot -- it was where most of the guards were -- and he watched a few patrol around a catwalk around the roof long enough to catch on that there was some sort of greenhouse there. He blinked over to it, catching the two guards unawares, and tucked them neatly into the far corner of the catwalk where no one would see them.

Approaching the door to the greenhouse, he crouched and peered through the keyhole -- there was Sokolov, dictating into an audiograph with his back to the door. Easy, he decided, and nudged it open silently. The philosopher was too distracted with his notes, talking about one of his test subjects (something that disturbed Corvo a little), and didn’t even notice Corvo’s approach. He slumped bonelessly to the floor after only a few moments, and Corvo sighed. “Sorry, old man,” he muttered, though he wasn’t _that_ sorry.

A movement made him glance up, and his eyebrows rose considerably upon seeing a woman in a cage in the back of the greenhouse. Test subject, hm? Well, that figured. He pulled a key of Sokolov’s belt and walked over, unlocking the door and stepping aside. The woman looked up, startled, and managed a weak smile -- she looked pale and a bit sickly, and Corvo pitied her. She might not last long, but at least she wasn’t locked up in a cage to die. “Thank you,” she said shakily. “He kept me locked up here, and I-- well, it hurts, but...I think I’ll be alright.” She coughed. “I’ll lay low in here until the guards leave, I think. I...thank you again.”

Corvo nodded, moving to a table and tossing her one of the dozens of elixir vials scattered about. She caught it and got the message, nodding back and sliding to sit against a wall with a sigh. There wasn’t much more he could do for her now, but...she was free, he supposed, and that was enough.

That done, he slung Sokolov over his shoulder and left the greenhouse, blinking across a pair of roofs and a half-crumbled building to get to where stone steps led down to the northern docks. A glance around showed the edge of a skiff peeking out from under the bridge support, and he walked there to see Samuel, who grinned at him from where he stood waiting. “Look at that,” he said. “The Royal Physician himself. You made a good job of it.”

“Took longer than I thought, though,” Corvo admitted, nodding at the setting sun. “Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” Samuel said with a chuckle. “Now just drop him here, and we can get going.” Corvo dropped him in the boat, and he and Samuel got in after. Corvo took his mask off and stifled a yawn as they pulled away from the pier, the boat heading back down the river to the Hound’s Pit.

As they went, Samuel told Corvo they’d set up a cell for Sokolov in the old kennel, from the days when the pub hosted dog fights. Not that he wasn’t sure the man had woken up in worse places before, if half his reputation preceded him.

It was night by the time they got back, and Corvo near-wordlessly handed Sokolov off to Havelock and Martin -- Havelock his usual businesslike self and Martin watching the unconscious philosopher like the whole situation was hilarious. The admiral was talking, but he didn’t really listen; it wasn’t like it was anything new. “You must want to get some sleep,” Martin interrupted finally. “Go on then, get. Knowing the old goat, he’ll be out ‘til morning. We can talk to him then.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Corvo said gratefully, and nodded at Havelock before heading off. He stopped briefly to look in on Emily, seeing that she was asleep on top of her covers, and Callista was asleep as well in the bed beside hers. She must have been waiting up for him, he thought, stepping over and brushing some hair out of her face.

He passed some pinned up drawings as he left back to his room, noting absently that there was one of a whale that didn’t quite look like Emily’s usual work -- he was too tired to really think about it, though, and ended up falling asleep soon after his head hit the pillow, for once.

Tomorrow they’d talk to Sokolov, and tomorrow they’d know the next piece they had to topple off the chessboard. Soon, then. Soon everything would be over, and they could go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So finally I get a chapter out that's a reasonable length! Admittedly that's in part because the trek to Sokolov's apartment is a slog, holy shit, how long is that bridge!!! But still. The important thing is Corvo's thoughts, not so much what he does.
> 
> Also I loved writing his exchange here with the Outsider lmfao -- he's got our Voidboy pegged. He doesn't like him, not yet, but at least he understands him a little better. We'll see how they end up getting on as we go :)
> 
> Also-also: EMILY!!! MY BABY!! (and in case you're wondering why the outsider asked about her, see my tower ghost fics B) )  
> Also Bend Time is so hella cool I can't imagine Corvo wouldn't be all HOLYSHIT about it.


	5. the party

“Corvo,” someone called him, and he attempted to roll over irritably. That didn’t go well, considering how small the bed was, and he sighed, facedown in the pillow. “Corvo, wake up!”

“Fine,” he muttered, sitting up and rubbing at his face -- at this point, he wasn’t sure if a full day or two of sleep would stop him from feeling as bone-deep exhausted as he was, but he could try -- and turned, softening when he realized it was Emily trying to wake him. She hovered by his bed with a little smile of amusement, a few battered penny novels tucked under her arm. “Good morning, Emily,” he said, and she laughed.

“You were making funny faces in your sleep,” she told him, and he wondered what he’d dreamt about. He laughed quietly, and Emily giggled, coming to perch on the bed next to him. “I decided to come stay in here while Callista takes a bath,” she told him. “She said if there’s ever any trouble to come straight here, anyway.”

Corvo ruffled her hair. “You’re always welcome here, Emily,” he told her. “And I won’t tell Callista you aren’t reading your schoolbooks, either.” She blushed and pouted at him, and he looked amused. A tiny slice of normalcy in all the chaos...it was welcome. It eased some of the weight off his shoulders. He was glad she was here with him, that she was safe. The two of them could cling together in this mess, in this terrible storm that was their lives now. Not forever; he’d make sure of that. But while the storm raged, they’d have each other, and they would have each other after, too.

Emily frowned at him for a moment, and he wondered if she could see something of his worries. She was a smart girl, and observant -- he’d tried to make sure no one had reason to be concerned for him, but still. He had nightmares most nights and never had much of an appetite (which annoyed Lydia to no end, given how he never actually finished a meal), and all his wounds from his time in Coldridge still bothered him -- probably because he hadn’t ever really had them properly treated, but there was some amount of pride and shame there that spoke louder than common sense. He was being ridiculous, he knew that, but...every time he closed his eyes he could still see Jessamine, and it ripped that wound open fresh. He wasn’t sure that time would heal this one, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever really be the same.

Despite all that, though, he had to remain steady -- he was needed, he was probably the only man who could do any of what had to be done to end this. As frayed and cracked as he was, he couldn’t afford to let that affect him. Not until it was over, and even then, he had to worry about protecting Emily. One thing at a time, though, he told himself, and let his hand linger on Emily’s head. She certainly noticed his distraction, but she didn’t say anything; just smiled at him shyly.

“I should probably go talk to Havelock,” he admitted. “We need to talk to Sokolov.”

“Tell Mr. Sokolov hello for me,” Emily said, putting her books beside her and selecting one to read. “I like him, he’s funny. The Admiral wouldn’t let me go talk to him this morning, though.”

Corvo chuckled. “I will,” he said. “And I really don’t see a problem with you visiting, so long as someone’s with you. Though I’m not sure how many stories I want him telling you.” Emily huffed, but kept smiling, and he leaned to kiss her forehead before heading downstairs.

As he passed the second floor landing, the door was slightly ajar, and he frowned. That was actually unusual, given how careful everyone was about closing doors and locking them when necessary and the air of paranoia about the place. Shrugging, he went to check, and only remembered Callista was using the pub’s bathroom when he noticed Piero kneeling in the hall in front of it.

He paused, processing what the man must be doing, and then sighed. The idiot...he walked over to him silently, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him back into the landing with little fanfare. The philosopher yelped, though he covered his mouth, and when Corvo let go he stared up at him red-faced and ashamed. Good, Corvo thought. At least the man was aware he was being horrifically inappropriate.

“I-I know it looked...bad,” Piero mumbled awkwardly, rocking from foot to foot and rubbing the back of his neck. “W-Would you believe me if I said I was inventing a new kind of lock…?”

“No,” Corvo said dryly. “No, I really wouldn’t.”

Piero let out a tiny noise, and Corvo belatedly remembered he was probably fairly frightening in general to most people. Oh, well. The man needed to be scared out of bad habits early, before he actually did anything worse than a little peeping. “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “You’re right, there is no lock. I-I was just...y’know...looking.”

“I would really rather you not,” Corvo said sternly. “I’m aware you’re interested in Callista, but if you’re serious about that, spying on her in the bath is the quickest way to shoot your chances in the foot.” Piero probably had no idea how to actually talk to her, he knew that much too, but this wasn’t exactly any better. “You might want to try treating her with a little more respect than something to spy on, Piero, or a sounding board for your own intelligence. If I catch you doing something like this again...” He left the threat implied, which was likely far more effective to someone with the imagination the philosopher had.

Piero flinched, and nodded meekly. “R-Right,” he mumbled. “I’ll...I’ll go now. Be in my workshop if-- if you need anything.” He crept down the stairs, properly cowed, and Corvo followed, heading out to the kennels where Sokolov was being kept.

The dog fighting cage in the center of the building had a mattress and chair in it now, and Corvo couldn’t help but think it was still better than Coldridge. Sokolov paced in it, staring down Havelock, who looked genuinely irritated -- a common reaction to the man, honestly.

“Ah, Corvo,” Havelock said, sounding almost grateful for his arrival, before turning to Sokolov with an edge to his voice. “I believe the two of you knew each other in former days. Unlike you, however, Corvo knows what loyalty means.”

Sokolov snorted. “Bah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I am loyal to my inner spirit. _You_ are the one consorting with the most wanted man in the Empire.”

“It’s my belief that Corvo is innocent,” Havelock replied before Corvo could say anything, leaving him to roll his eyes at Sokolov (who looked amused) and step back to lean against the wall. If the admiral wanted to talk over him, then fine. “And the former Spymaster, or the Lord Regent, as he calls himself, is a ruthless tyrant bent on destroying this city, the heart of the Empire.” As he spoke, he circled around the cage to one of the dog crates, one that had been dragged to the edge of the fighting ring. That caught Corvo’s attention, and he shifted to approach.

“You are mistaken if you think there’s any love between me and the Lord Regent,” Sokolov snapped. “But whatever you intend to do here, I assure you, I am beyond petty scare tactics.”

Havelock shrugged, but he had the air of someone with a plan, and Corvo frowned. “If I don’t scare you, Sokolov,” he said. “Perhaps these will.” He slammed his arm hard against the dog crate he stood beside, and they could all here the screeching and skittering of rats. “Even if they don’t carry the plague, I’ve heard of a swarm of rats stripping a child’s body to the bone in half a minute -- and worse. How long do you think it will be before you talk?”

“Havelock!” Corvo snapped, turning to him. “You neglected to inform me you were considering setting _a crate of rats_ on Sokolov.” Granted, Corvo wasn’t as scared of rats as most men, not anymore, but _still_. He could hear their voices amid the frantic squeaking, calling for food and blood and flesh, and _honestly_. “We won’t get much out of him if you and his own stubbornness kill him.” He knew Sokolov would refuse to say a word out of spite, and then they’d lose more than just their only chance at information. “I thought we were supposedly better than the Lord Regent.”

Sokolov, as Corvo expected, didn’t seem scared, either. “Rats! So this is the company you keep these days, Admiral,” he said, taunting, though he was watching Corvo intently.

“It’s the company _you_ keep that interests us, Sokolov,” Havelock countered, after glancing at Corvo as well. “We know you painted a portrait of the Lord Regent’s mistress, the very aristocrat who is funding the military with her fortune. She is the key to the Lord Regent’s control over the city, and we must have her name.”

Sokolov crossed his arms. “Sorry, Admiral,” he said, unaffected by the threat as he walked away to the opposite end of the cage. “I cannot help you.”

Corvo groaned quietly, stepping forward and circling the cage so he could talk to Sokolov more quietly. “Don’t be such an ass, Anton,” he said irritably.

Sokolov laughed. “So you really are part of this rabble,” he said, genuinely amused. He must be entertained by all this, really, Corvo thought. Was he scared of anything? “Well, I know you have your reasons.”

“He does,” Havelock said, and Corvo groaned. “We just need the mistress’s name.”

“Well, I elect not to tell you,” Sokolov snapped. This would go nowhere if Havelock wouldn’t stop interrupting and taking over the conversation, Corvo thought irritably. It was obvious Sokolov didn’t like the man and would refuse to answer anything he asked. “You’ll have to force the words from me, Admiral, and I warn you, my willpower is quite legendary -- something I’m certain Attano has pointed out to you.”

Corvo wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle Sokolov, or congratulate him for making Havelock go almost as red as a Morley apple. Either way, he was...definitely the man he remembered. This wasn’t going to be easy if they kept trying to brute force the interrogation. “It’s clear that threats never work on you,” he said, crossing his arms. “So let’s try a different angle. Whatever Havelock might threaten, I know you better than he does, and I know how this will work: what do you want in exchange for the name, Anton?”

Havelock sputtered, and Sokolov grinned widely. “Finally, someone understands,” he said. “Well...I am quite thirsty. I could use a drink -- and not the swill they have in the back of that old pub, there. The good stuff.”

Corvo rolled his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and then looked over at the irritated Havelock. “Trust me on this,” he told the man. “It’ll work.”

Leaving the kennel, he hesitated a moment -- where in the Void was he supposed to get ‘good stuff’, and what did the crazy old man even like? -- and then an idea struck him. Piero and Sokolov were old colleagues, even if Piero, for his part, hated the other man. Perhaps he knew of something. And besides, he had something to use if he had to force the issue -- he didn’t want to, but it was there.

Piero was lingering absently in the workshop, looking distracted, and jumped when Corvo entered. “Corvo!” He stammered. “Ah, I-- how is it going with Sokolov? I saw you head to the kennel earlier...he’s infuriating, isn’t he?”

“Quite,” Corvo said dryly. “But we’ve come to some kind of agreement; unfortunately, it means resorting to bribery, and I’ve got no idea what he’s implying when he asks for ‘good’ liquor.”

Piero laughed at that, looking pleased with himself. “It’s fairly well-known -- to those who worked with him, at least -- that Sokolov is exceedingly fond of a rare liquor called King Street brandy. Virtually addicted, really. It tastes revolting, if I’m honest,” he said, making a face. “But I do happen to have a bottle. I don’t know that I want to let Sokolov have it, though...it cost me quite a lot. It is _very_ expensive, a blend of--”

“Piero,” Corvo cut him off. “This is probably the only way we’re going to get him to talk -- you know how stubborn he is as well as I do, and he’ll die before he says anything if we try violence.” Piero nodded reluctantly. “I hate to have to bribe him, but…it’s what we’ve got to do.”

Piero still looked indecisive, so Corvo sighed. “I don’t want to threaten you, Piero, but do know that I could talk to Callista at any time about...you know what.” The philosopher went white almost immediately, and scurried up to his loft, coming down a moment later with a glass bottle of liquor. Even capped, Corvo could smell how pungent it was, and he grimaced.

“Don’t tell her?” Piero asked weakly, and Corvo nodded, taking the bottle.

“I won’t,” he promised. “Just keep in mind what I said and _behave_.” Piero didn’t have near the same reputation as Sokolov; there was still a chance for him to keep it that way. Nodding again at Piero, he returned to the kennel, and Sokolov’s eyes widened considerably as he entered with the bottle in hand.

“King Street brandy!” He exclaimed. “I didn’t know any more bottles _existed_.”

Corvo just smiled. “Well, this one does,” he said. “And you’ll have it -- if we get our name.”

“Clever boy, aren’t you?” Sokolov said with a laugh. “I can tell you this much -- she was always referred to as Lady Boyle. I painted her, to be sure, but I never saw her face or learned her first name. I painted her from behind, you see. So, unfortunately, I do not know _which_ Boyle sister she is. I was to be introduced to her at the annual masquerade, you see. Though, clearly, I will be missing that party.”

“The annual masquerade?” Havelock asked. “That’s in two days’ time. The timing couldn’t be better, if you ask me. The Boyles are wealthy and ruthless, though, so security will be very tight.”

Solokov laughed. “Well, he already _has_ a mask, doesn’t he?” He said. “I’m sure the nobility will be delighted that someone is playing the part of their most recent bogeyman.” That much was true, Corvo knew; he’d been to the party before, before Jessamine was Empress and could attend, and the nobles would find his mask a novelty, enjoying that someone thought to play at being such a wanted figure. Annoying, but in this case it would come in handy.

“You’ll have to find out which of the sisters is the one connected to the Lord Regent, and take her out whichever way you can devise,” Havelock added, and Corvo was glad he was finally getting used to the idea that Corvo wasn’t killing anyone. “We’re very close, now. If you do this, we’ll be able to strike at the Lord Regent himself and put Emily on the throne.”

“I know,” Corvo said, and slipped the bottle through bars to Sokolov, who tucked it away somewhere on him. The philosopher grinned at him and nodded, and Corvo left the kennel behind Havelock. Two days…? That meant it was High Cold already. It felt like it was the start of the new year just yesterday, but...his sense of time was screwed, he knew that. Six months in Coldridge had blurred it all together, and he hadn’t even realized. The pleasantly cool weather of the Month of Earth had plunged into genuine cold and it hadn’t even...he sighed, shaking his head. It just made him realize once again how badly everything had gone wrong, how far their lives had fallen. Made him want to end this even more.

* * *

Two days later came the night of the party, and -- promising Emily he’d tell her at least about the costumes and promising Martin he’d bring back gossip -- he got his gear together and headed down to meet Samuel. The boatman would drop him off near the north end of Kaldwin’s bridge, where the estate district and the Boyle estate was. There were some canals there, so he could get fairly close, and as they pulled up, there was commotions in the distance.

“Well, I’ll be,” Samuel said, leaning up a bit alongside Corvo to get a glimpse. “The Lord Regent’s really pulling out all the stops. I didn’t think there’d be tallboys patrolling here tonight. Watch yourself, Corvo.”

“I know,” Corvo said with a grimace, putting on his mask. Tallboys...he’d seen them before, seen them in action during demonstrations, but never up close. He hoped he wouldn’t have to, but he had a bad feeling. Samuel pulled up along the side of the canal and Corvo got out, slipping up the steps. This wouldn’t be easy, he thought, looking up at the clocktower close by as it chimed. Well -- getting in wouldn’t. Being around the party was simpler, but he had to find out which Boyle was the one he wanted, and that was...also difficult. But either way, it would be a lot more _interesting_ than the other missions.

His mark twinged when he got up to street level, and he stifled a laugh. Even in the Estate District, there were shrines? How many nobles played at heresy in basements or hidden rooms, he wondered. The Outsider probably ignored them all, and he really didn’t blame him for that. It wasn’t real belief, it was the equivalent of children daring each other to touch a bloodfly nest, knowing it was dead and empty. The thrill of safe danger. He summoned her Heart to his hand and followed its pulse to a building on the other side of the river from the Boyle estate, near the security checkpoint. Blinking up to the house next door’s roof and then into a second floor window found him in the room with the shrine, and he frowned slightly at the old graffiti on the walls. It was familiar, somehow, and a little disturbing.

Nonetheless, he shrugged and picked up the rune, expecting to see the Outsider and nodding at him in greeting when he appeared. The being seemed a bit surprised to be greeted, but recovered quickly. “Going to a party, Corvo?” He asked. “Do you miss them? The drinking, the dancing, the wealth -- did you miss it in Coldridge, all those months while waiting for the executioner?”

Normally, Corvo would parse his words as a thinly veiled insult, but the being sounded almost genuinely curious. “Not really,” he admitted. “I used to enjoy parties, but...I didn’t miss them.” He’d attended his fair share in Karnaca, and those stories were some he’d _never_ tell, but since getting to Dunwall...parties had ended up the last thing on his mind, and he’d never really appreciated the ones here. Parties of the nobility were a far cry from the ones he’d been to, the raucous gatherings of the miners and the average folk. “I missed...something else,” he added quietly. “Things like parties were the last things on my mind.”

His answer seemed to please the Outsider, who shifted slightly. Was it Corvo’s imagination or was he beginning to move around a bit more, not simply remain statue-still as he spoke? Huh. “Disaster tends to make one realize what they really value,” the being noted. “Reveals what kind of man you _really_ are.”

“And what kind of man am I, then?” Corvo asked, smiling faintly. “What have I shown you?”

The Outsider’s expression was unreadable. “...A man who would do anything for his family,” he said finally. “But one who tries his best to remain human while doing so. It isn’t something I’ve seen often -- if at all -- but it’s...welcome.” Corvo blinked in surprise at that, genuinely startled.

“That’s generous of you to say,” he said after a moment. “I wasn’t expecting something so…” So positive, really. The Outsider didn’t seem the type to hand out praise easily, or even say anything genuinely nice about anyone. But there he was. Was there something a little softer about the being tonight? He wasn’t sure, but it almost seemed like it. “You’re in a good mood tonight,” he said finally.

“Am I?” The Outsider asked, a bit bewildered, and then laughed, shaking his head. “Perhaps I am. Does it bother you?”

“Not really, no,” Corvo said. He didn’t mind it at all, really. It was...gratifying to see the Outsider, eldritch being that he was, seem more human. It made him more tolerable. He didn’t trust the monotone, eerie creature he’d met, but if he was noticeably warming to him, or at least just warming in genera...that was something he could learn to trust. “Why would it?”

Again the Outsider seemed a bit confused, but shook his head. “I...mm. It doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “What will you do to Lady Boyle tonight, I wonder?” He mused. “I can see all her tomorrows, and I know what may happen, whichever way you choose. She might die tonight, yes, but she might also live out her lonely days far away from here; whatever happens, it will be by your hands.” He smiled. “Whatever the case -- and I believe we both know, now, what will happen -- tonight is the Lady Boyle’s last party.”

“I’m glad you trust me now,” Corvo said, surprised that he really was. It felt like he’d earned the trust of a feral cat, one who hated most people and refused to be even a little bit tame. The Outsider blinked at that, and then nodded.

The world came back, and Corvo shook himself off, still a little startled at all that, but surprisingly appreciative. It was good to know that whatever he was doing, he was earning some sort of respect from even a the being said to rule the Void.

He left the apartment and dropped into the canal, climbing up the opposite bank and brushing himself off. Well, now he just had to get in. He could walk in -- though he didn’t have an invitation -- he could blink over the gates, he could...there were a lot of things he could do. Something in the back of his mind, though, said that there was one more thing than all the others he’d thought of. Maybe for once the Outsider had taken enough pity to make sure he knew what magic he’d been granted this time?

He slipped around the side of the building and glanced around -- there. He reached out a hand to the rat he saw skittering around, and with a gasp, he felt a pull, and was suddenly lower to the ground by quite a bit. His vision was odd colors, and the soft rushing, hissing noise he heard for a brief moment when he blinked or usd his sight was echoing in his ears, but...he was a rat. Or in a rat. He wasn’t sure which. Either way, it was surreal. Using his temporary form, he skittered along the wall until he found a broken vent and went through, darting through the bushes and shadows into the house.

Everyone was giants from this perspective, massive boots and booming voices, and he was starting to understand why rats were so generally skittish. Who wouldn’t be when the rest of the world around you was so much bigger? He stopped under a table for a moment, thinking. How was he going to figure out which Boyle was which? Perhaps something in their rooms? That would mean going upstairs, and he’d have to be careful about that. But _getting_ there wasn’t hard, especially in this form. He just had to skitter beneath the tables for a while until he got to the stairs -- noting with some consternation the Overseer holding a music box -- and up them, only finally releasing his magic once he was inside the nearest bedroom. He staggered a little with a gasp as he was suddenly himself again, and frowned a little regretfully as he looked back down at the rat’s still body. Then again, he couldn’t imagine something like that not killing a small creature like that.

A search of the quarters revealed it to be Esma Boyle’s -- specifically her diary, which professed her desire to sleep with all the men who asked her to tonight -- and he gently closed the book, grimacing. He really hadn’t needed to know that. She wasn’t the one he was looking for, so there was thankfully that, and he had to admit he pitied her a little, but...on to the next one.

The search had also turned up a secret passage, and he used it, following it through the attic and into another bedroom. This one had a key on her writing table, and he pocketed it instinctively before reading the papers beside it. The diary marked the room as Waverly’s, and the neatly folded letter beside it from Burrows...well. That answered all his questions, including which of the women downstairs it was -- the one in red, it seemed. He knew the women looked very much alike, and that they were wearing masks...knowing what she wore would come in handy. (And so would the Tower key he’d stolen.)

He slipped out of the room and into the hall, taking a breath and stopping time a moment to run down the corridor and stairs and back into the party area proper before releasing the spell in a secluded area. He shook himself off and headed back into the main area, a bit amused that no one batted an eye at him. That was good, and it was better that he remain as unobtrusive as possible -- he knew the Abbey’s music boxes affected witches, and he didn’t want to know what one would do to _him_ now.

He wandered the party, keeping an eye out for Waverly, and passed the guestbook in the foyer beside the tables laden with food. He paused there for a moment, and on a whim picked up the pen and scribbled his name down. Maybe it was a joke in ill taste, but they would never be able to be sure -- and maybe he wanted Burrows to know he was next. Half of them wouldn’t even believe it, anyway.

Crossing another few rooms let him spy one of the other sisters in black, talking to a pair of men, and several other people milling about. As he’d promised, he kept an eye out for costumes and an ear for gossip, noting the best of both for Emily and Martin. Among the guests he spotted a whale mask, which made him chuckle, but still no Waverly. He was beginning to get frustrated, when someone clearing his throat caught his attention, and he stopped, following the sound to a man in a patchwork rat’s mask, who was motioning to him. He went over, tilting his head in curiosity, and the man leaned forward to speak quickly and quietly.

“I know your mission tonight, and we must speak privately,” he said, gesturing him into a quiet corner away from the crowds and guards. Corvo stiffened, but followed warily, and the man waved a hand in reassurance. “I’m Lord Brisby, a friend of Pendleton’s -- Treavor -- and I’ve done a few favors for your cause. Don’t worry; I’m a friend of yours, too.”

Corvo relaxed slightly, though still on edge, and nodded. “What do you have to say, then?” He asked quietly.

“I know your purpose here tonight, and -- how to say this -- your target is the woman I love,” the man said. Corvo raised his eyebrows beneath his mask, but gestured for him to go on. Just because he loved her didn’t in the least mean the other way around. “The point is that-- Pendleton told me about your...pacifism in dealing with those needing to be dealt with. I swear, if you bring her to me unharmed, you will never hear of her again. There’s a cellar directly below the kitchen -- I’ll wait for you there.”

He sighed. “I’m not proud of this, but…surely it’s better than seeing her killed? Her name is Waverly, she’s...I don't know which color she’s in tonight, though -- the sisters are all dressed identically otherwise -- but...you’ll be able to figure it out, won’t you?”

“I will,” Corvo said with a nod. “I’ll meet you in the cellar.” Brisby looked grateful and nodded, slipping off and leaving Corvo alone. It was...awkward, he thought. He’d scolded Piero earlier for spying on Callista, but here he was about to enable a man to kidnap someone for Void knew what. He had to just hope that she was able to handle herself -- the sisters were all strong-willed women, he knew that much. And Brisby had been right about one thing: it was better than murdering her.

Another circuit around the estate finally found Waverly, standing near a large mirror and adjusting her mask. Corvo frowned -- he could probably speak to her unawares, get her to go down to the cellar on her own (since knocking her out outright was a terrible idea), but...there weren’t many options here. If she recognized his voice...wait. He had only tried it on that rat, before, but perhaps that power could…

He lifted his hand slightly, and the room wobbled a bit before he realized that yes, it had worked. The world still looked strange and his ears hummed, but he was in Waverly’s form. Void, a worse man than him could do so much harm with this sort of spell, he thought. He was glad he wasn’t a worse man.

He took a breath and walked away from the mirror, through the halls and into the kitchen. Thankfully ignoring people seemed to be in character, as no one questioned her presence or her silence, and once he was at the bottom of the cellar steps he stepped out of her body, catching her as she slumped into his arms, unconscious. “Sorry about this, Lady Boyle,” he said quietly. “But you’re a clever woman. You’ll make it work.”

He picked her up, carrying her into the cellar and to where Brisby waited on a boat -- apparently there was a small waterway that led out into the river. He waved Corvo over frantically. “At last!” He said, voice wavering. “Oh, my love-- give her here, let’s get her on the boat.” Corvo passed her to the nobleman, who arranged her gently beside him as comfortable as he could make her; very comfortable, clearly, given he’d put pillows in place ahead of time. “You’ll never know how happy you’ve made me,” he told Corvo. “Thank you, thank you. And I promise, she’ll never bother you again.”

He hit the motor and vanished into the waterway tunnel, and Corvo sighed. That had been far easier than expected, but it still left a bit of a bad taste in his mouth. Hopefully things would turn out alright for Waverly, but...mm.

He headed back towards the cellar entrance, keeping an eye out for rats -- and there were a few, small healthy ones (he hadn’t seen many plague rats, if any, since the sewers, and that was a small blessing) moving about. He picked one at random and stepped into it, scurrying out of the cellar and out the back door of the estate. Once safely away from it and in the shadow of another building, he stepped back out of the rat, nearly collapsing on the spot from the headache that struck him. He let out a soft groan, pulling his mask up to drink a vial of Piero’s elixir, and leaning against the wall until the pain faded. Perhaps using that ability was best done sparingly. It had taken a lot less time to develop a headache from it than any of the others he used.

Once he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up, he moved through the quiet streets back to the canal, only to realize Samuel had moved from his spot. He’d probably went back down the river past the gate they’d gone through, he realized, and headed down that way. There were no guards around the gate area, as most of them were around the Boyle estate, so he was able to go around it and leap down into the water to get to Samuel’s boat. The boatman helped him get out of the canal and into the boat, and the two men shared a laugh as Corvo took his mask off and wrung out some of the water in his clothes.

“Enjoy your evening, sir?” Samuel asked with a smile.

Corvo smiled back. “More or less,” he replied. “We should get going, though.” samuel nodded, and steered the boat back down the canal and into the river proper, heading back to the Hound’s Pit.

As they pulled up, Samuel told him that Havelock had said they’d speak tomorrow morning, given how late it was like to be when they got back, and Corvo nodded, thanking him before heading off. It was past midnight by now, and Emily was likely asleep, so he’d have to tell her about the party tomorrow. She’d probably appreciate the break from lessons.

By the next morning news about Waverly’s disappearance would have spread, and he could imagine how that would affect Burrows. Let him stew in it, Corvo decided. Let him stew, and wait for Corvo to come for him. Because he would, and soon.

They were close to the end, now. One last push would do it...and then they would be home, he and Emily. They would be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this is 100% happening in the same 'verse as my Tower Ghost fics (give or take a little tweaking), so at this point the Outsider has visited Emily three times; take that plus his softening towards Corvo as you will :)
> 
> Second, in case you're wondering - the bonecharms Corvo carries at this point are Accommodating Host, Unsteady Hand, and Separation Trauma. This is how come he could linger in the rats that long and knock Waverly's ass out when he ended his possession~ 
> 
> Third, Corvo is a good boy who was super not entirely comfortable with the nonlethal, but at least it turned out okay for her? Meh. (Also Piero pls no peeping that's a bad; at least he gets talked out of it and realizes it's a shitty thing to do before he gets worse.)
> 
> (fourth, wtf is this timeline, it says on the wiki that the game goes between months of high cold and hearths, with the boyle party on the last day of high cold, but theres an entire month between high cold and hearts - 28 days!! - and in gametime events basically take like a week or so??? wtf guys)


End file.
